Whiskey, Wood & Bone
by Gelana
Summary: Bates and Anna au that takes place during the logging boom in the Santa Cruz mountains of California in the late 1800s. M for mature themes. It is really not as far-fetched as it sounds. Come on, give it a chance. You won't be sorry. Seriously. Read the reviews if you won't take my word for it.
1. Tokens

_12th of April 1882  
She always seems sad. For someone as cheerful and kind as she is, and I believe it when I write that her cheer and good nature are not a facade, her eyes are often searching for something on the horizon, or her gaze is turned inward. She genuinely likes people, and does not condemn all of my sex for the ill treatment she has received at the hands of some. For no woman works as she does without ending the day with bruises, either of the flesh or soul. And I have only ever seen her act cold and standoffish with a select number of people. Most of those are men barred from passing through the doors of The Garden._

He stopped writing and set down the fountain pen that the Earl, his employer, had gifted him for Christmas. The pull he took from the bottle was small and slow. A protracted sip really. He stretched into the ache in his lower back. There were splinters under two of his fingernails, big enough to hurt but fine enough to prove impossible to remove. He loved and hated this country in turns. The swelling and falling scope of it was magnificent, the peoples endlessly fascinating. He had never seen anything like the redwood trees. Taller than the Tower of London, higher than the face of Big Ben. They were awe inspiring. He hadn't believed the descriptions, couldn't wrap his head around what a tree three hundred and fifty feet tall and over twenty feet in diameter at the base of the trunk would even look like. He and his Lordship were both struck dumb at their first sight of the quiet giants. He supposed he knew what ants felt like as the two of them had watched as a hundred jacks swarmed one of the felled giants that first day.

He liked the Santa Cruz Mountains very much, but there was no real place for him here. After the first few weeks living in the hotel room next to Lord Grantham and following him about dutifully during the day and evening to keep an eye on him, they were labeled the Duke and the Dandy and taken for homosexuals. It became quickly obvious that valets were not a rural Western American affectation. At that point he was banished to a cabin near the lime kilns and timber works that the English Earl was helping to fund.

The bulk of his duties stripped from him, he tried to make himself useful where he could. Fortunately the logging manager, Elijah Cooper, or Coop, as the jacks called him, had as he said, "Taken a shine to him." The man had hair the color of dirty straw and was ruddy skinned from laboring out of doors his life long, and was happy to put the foreigner to work where there was need. He immediately saw Bates' innate ability to quietly and fairly lead and mentor the younger men and put him to work overseeing tree falls and helping to negotiate disputes between the jacks and the lime workers. He didn't technically make a salary, but Elijah, being one of the few men in the mountains who made money enough to bring his wife out, ensured that Bates returned to his bunk with extras of whatever his wife Norah-Jane cooked for Coop and leftovers from supper the day before besides. And from time to time he left a bottle of whiskey just inside the door of John's small cabin. (It had been occupied by an assistant manager who had been crushed and killed in a tree-fall gone wrong- so it lay empty, and John welcomed it graciously. Any modicum of privacy was much appreciated.) Since His Lordship was still paying him his full wages, it was a most agreeable exchange. Though Coop more or less employed him, he was still seen as a relatively impartial judge and was know for being just and fair, and was often called on to resolve disputes. He went into town three or four times during the week, sometimes more, typically in the evenings. He tended to the mending and stains, laid out several suggested ensembles and did the shoe and button polishing. It was a strange half-existence.

Though he appreciated the comforting familiarity of a needle and thread in his fingers, a boot brush in his hand, it felt good to fall asleep tired from proper labor. Still, as much as he enjoyed the feel of the sun dappling his skin he had to admit, he was getting old. His bad ankle throbbed, though it had held all day, which was a blessing. He had turned it earlier in the week and it was skirting the edge of giving out entirely once again. He hated to hobble around with the damned cane so he wrapped it tightly and walked with intent and care over the uneven ground. Any more stress he would need the cane whether he liked it or not. He wondered if Coop had started assigning him more managerial duties out of respect or pity. One could never be sure. At least he had something to occupy him. He hated idleness, unless there was a library of books to be read, then he adjusted his opinion on the matter temporarily. Reading was educating oneself and therefor not an idle pursuit. Not that it mattered; there was no proper library for many many miles.

At least his shoulder wasn't playing up from decking Sly Tom. The small minded younger man had stepped out of line again and needed to be taken down a peg. True he wasn't technically in charge of the lumberjack, but Sly Tom was insulting the money behind the operation. The man who made sure he received his pay.

He took another sip and let his mind wander like it shouldn't. To a woman young enough to be his daughter. A woman who looked to him with affection, but certainly not the same sort of affection he felt when he looked at her. A woman of the sort wholly inappropriate for him to bring home to meet his mother, as it were, even if his mother wasn't halfway around the world. A woman whose sweetness was noticed and commented on the camp over. She wasn't called Alyssum Annie for nothing. The joke was that she was as tiny and sweet and pale as the small fragrant white flowered garden plant, alyssum. She grinned at him when he asked her about it. "When every other plant in the garden is dead the alyssum is still kicking, still sowing seeds for the next season. Up here it doesn't die in the winters. It's sturdy as dried shit. I reckon there are worse flowers to be likened to, even if it is common as dirt."

She made him smile. She was beautiful to be sure, he would never deny to himself the pull of her eyes, the delicate curve of her mouth, the plumpness of her upper arms. There was no denying her beauty, but she was such a quick wit, so clever, and so kind. These were the things he found himself hopelessly taken with. She told it how it was with the vocabulary of a fairly well read lumberjack. This pleased him, almost more than any of her other attributes, after all of the games and restraint and prescribed movements of his life.

He met her a short while after he and Lord Grantham had arrived, after they had been given their moniker, and it was determined that the "Dandy" would live away from the hotel. They had taken the transcontinental railroad across the middle of the massive country to see where and how His Lordship's American wife's brother was spending his money. The entirety of the family had traveled via first class steamer to Lady Grantham's ancestral home, in part to avoid the London Season this year. Relations between Lord Grantham and his wife had been strained at the best of times since the unfortunate death of their youngest daughter. She had been a vivacious girl. A gust of fresh air through the entirety of the familial house. Dead in childbirth. Lady Grantham and the two older girls were staying for the season with her mother. No one could bear the silent questioning and pitying looks they would have had to endure in London.

Lord Grantham left toward the end of summer, shortly before the family was to return to England and made no commitment as to his return date. John wasn't sure His Lordship had plans to return at all. All the man talked about these days was the lure of the American west and the untapped resources therein. So after several months touring the west coast they had ended up in the mountains along the northern part of the central coast of California in December. Fortunately the winters there were mild. No snow, rarely did the mercury drop to freezing, and rain that actually took the chill out of the air when it fell.

He liked working alongside the jacks. It was hard, honest work; they were hard and typically honest men. And bold boisterous boys set out to prove their hardness. They were used to downing logs for the lime kilns with a vengeance, and with redwood that was a specialty operation the likes he had never seen before. Teams of men pried thick bark loose and sawed the huge logs into shorter chunks. Each chunk was split further and pulled by a team of mules to the massive stone kilns. There the giant hunks of wood were split and split and split again until they were small enough to be kindled.

The Earl himself was happy enough to let them alone and recieve reports from afar in the throes of camp. He quickly made a name for himself despite Bates' best efforts to keep him from the saloons and dance halls. An easy target, John had saved his skin from more than one ridiculous situation. Most of the loggers and lime kiln workers meant no ill. But when men are tired and homesick and drunk things happened.

He hadn't frequented The Garden when he was in town living in the hotel. He did his drinking primarily in his own room. But when he wasn't chasing after His Lordship to ensure the Earl's safety, he enjoyed card games and the first saloon he came to with a quality card table and skilled dealer had been the watering hole he chose.

It had a window that looked onto onto the Main Street that passed through the middle of the town of Felton. He watched the men flow in and out of the doors of three saloons. They were the three that were sat in a row right before the intersection of Grant Hill Road and the grade up to the lime and timber works. The Garden was stood in the middle. Perfectly situated to welcome the men as they stumbled off the mountainside for respite. Some of the girls came out to the street to call for tricks. Whenever he saw her out on the street, and that was rarely those first few weeks, it was usually during lulls in the evening, when the first batch of jacks had been sated and unleashed upon the gaming tables and the next round had yet to finish their drinking and gambling. It was at night when he first saw her, a pale shade, graceful and ghostly in the dark as she swept or leaned against a wall, silent. Then he took note of her by daylight. She'd raise an eyebrow or nod her head as certain men passed, but she didn't actively fish. He noticed it and thought it odd.

From time to time in years past, primarily in the years leading up to the Ashanti War, he'd sought solace with a prostitute from time to time. He sought solace, but never found it: he always felt so ashamed afterwards that by the time he was on a ship to the Dutch Gold Coast, learning the rigors of the sea, he had lost his taste for it. Then the atrocities he witnessed during his year in Africa, kidnappings and rapes and murders, only served to cement his opinion on the matter. More often than not these atrocities were at the hands of the men he served alongside. It had been nearly a decade, he wished he didn't, but he couldn't help but remember. No, he had long since given up any desire to find his release between the legs of a stranger.

She was outside, sweeping down the boardwalk in front of The Garden as he tried not to limp on his walk home from putting his employer to bed. This particular night he had been grateful that he had dragged himself down, Lord Grantham had lost a fair amount of money (a pittance to him, really, but a fortune to those around him) playing poker drunk, and had knocked the poker table over and begun hurtling accusations at the saloon's owner just as John had walked in from laying out His Lordship's clothes for the following day. Bates had bodily dragged him from the saloon and back toward the hotel. Ten paces from the saloon the peer began blubbering about his poor sweet baby girl, and how he was ruining things with Cora and was a fool to think he was any good at running an estate or managing his investments. Bates shook his head and sighed to himself. He called him milord and rested a firm, reassuring hand on the peer's shoulder. This brought the Earl back to a sort of somber inebriation that made the rest of the stumbled journey easier.

He began his walk up to the dark mountainside a half an hour later. The Lord of Grantham had vomited heartily into his chamber pot and then passed out on the floor in his clothes. Undressing him was harder without cooperation, but removing the sick and shit from his clothes later would be decidedly worse. He folded a sheet and rolled his employer over onto it, then covered him with a blanket and tucked a pillow under his head.

Her hair was a bit mussed and the strap of her chemise was slipping from her shoulder to where her shawl rested halfway down her upper arm. And he thought he had never seen anything as lovely as the smile she directed at him as he passed.

"Evening." The lilt of her soft soprano rang through the night air, invitation clear as the stars in the sky, even before she continued to speak. "Care to come slake your thirst?"

He smiled back at her, despite his foul mood at the earlier part of his evening, recognizing the Yorkshire accent. He responded, letting his voice drop the western american intonation, matching her inflection, "I find I'm not thirsty at the moment, thank you."

She laughed and clapped her hands together. "Where did you grow up? I was born north of York, in Pickering. I overhead you and the Duke talking while you took him home and I thought I heard Yorkshire somewhere in there. It's always nice to hear a familiar voice."

He took one step toward the flickering glow of lamplight and stopped. "Bit of everywhere really, me Da was a merchant, so when I was very young we moved a bit. But we settled in London and me mum makes lace from her house for the shops to this day. But I've been working for the Earl at Downton Abbey, near..."

"Between Thirsk and Harrogate, near Ripon?" It tickled him how alive she became when she spoke to him, even though she kept her tone quiet. "I grew up three towns over in Easingwold! Well, doesn't that just beat all, an ocean away and we were neighbors. Funny, when I was young, I fancied being a maid in a big house. I thought it would be nice to work amongst such lovely things. But then I imagine they wouldn't much appreciate someone as prone to running her mouth as I am. Are you sure I can't tempt you inside?" She stepped forward and put her hand on the rail of the boardwalk, her smile a beacon. "There is more than one sort of thirst."

He almost believed her. Almost believed that it wasn't his money she wanted. She was obviously skilled at putting people at ease. He thanked her again, tipped his hat to her and continued on. She was gracious, not vulgar and insistent like some might be. She crowded his thoughts that night.

He found, after he met her, that he played cards in town a bit more often and walked or rode back and forth to town whenever he had opportunity. His employer's horses needed exercising after all. The Garden was situated on the path from his cabin to the Earl's rooms at the hotel. Lord knew the man didn't ride them himself. He learned from casual inquiry that her name was Annie Lark. She had worked at The Garden for a long time, as long as the man he had asked remembered. No one had a bad word to say about her. She was not prone to opium or heavy drink. She sang like an angel. She was attentive. A few had too many things to say about her and her natural talents. It was all he could do to nod, unclench his fist and walk away.

If she was beautiful in the torchlight, she was radiant in the sun. But in the sun he could see how her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Still her voice and laughter were sweet and full and floated out from behind The Garden's doors.

She was sweet, but she was not meek. He watched her, in awe one day, as she stood down a mule train driver a solid two heads taller than her and gave him an earful for cursing and striking at the boy with him, presumably his son. She shamed him in such a way that everyone stood still for a few seconds in disbelief as she turned and stormed away. She could sing a bawdy song with the best of them and knock back a shot of whiskey without batting an eye. And she was said to have unbelievable aim with a knife.

He watched her from his window table at The Queen of Hearts, where the girls had learned to leave him alone, as he ate salt pork and corn bread and drained several glasses of milk. He was grateful for the nearly two mile walk back up the mountain every night, because it meant he might glimpse her through the windows or the open door. It meant she might even be outside and he might talk to her and be comforted by the sounds of his country.

Sometimes he saw her, sometimes she saw him, and nodded and smiled, and those times his heart would take off beating in his chest like a horse running flat out. He avoided talking directly to her, because he was afraid of what fool words would trip from his lips. But he loved listening to her talk to others. He rarely saw her outside when it was earlier and the streets were full of jacks and lime workers. Late, when the saloons were full and the torches and lanterns outside were lit, he often found her sweeping or just sitting quietly in the shadows. Those were the times he longed for and dreaded. Because she remembered him after the first night, he wasn't sure how with as many men passing through the camps as there were. Perhaps it was his accent. If it was calm on the street she would call to him softly, at first it was in the same playful flirty tone. After a handful of times seeing him, and being refused by him, (He could never bed her. Not ever. Even if he was able, after their first meeting he was too far gone to use her like that.) her tone changed. Not the sweetness, that was a constant in her. He couldn't put his finger on it exactly; what was different, but it was. She seemed more genuine somehow, less forced.

They talked about England and Ireland, Scotland, her Scottish ancestry on her mother's side. The details of her life floated to the surface of the river of her words slowly, parceled out tidbit by tidbit over the course of their meetings. Her father died when she still lived in Easingwold. She missed her uncle and aunt, and her sister. (He didn't ask if they were still alive.) Her mother had a beautiful singing voice, long light brown hair, and tried to do what was right for them. Things hadn't worked out as planned. The tides of your life do that.

Some nights she was cheerful and talkative. Other nights he could see through her smile like it was glass. The nights he didn't see her, she haunted his thoughts. It was never enough, these stolen, one-sided moments. They were only long enough to leave him wishing for her. He had never been so ridiculously sentimental. Had he? His thoughts made him feel guilty, for she probably enjoyed his company because he asked nothing more than to know her. Problem was, the more he knew her, the more he wanted her. Not in a possessive way. Not in the way he had wanted Vera. It wasn't that he wanted to bed her, (though he wanted that, too) he wanted to make her smile, and touch the hard angle of her jaw, and show her gentleness, because there was so little gentleness in this valley. There was stone and wood and bone and metal and fire and too many men and much too much whiskey.

He saw her through the window as he was walking one day and she was laughing and carousing through the nearly empty saloon with another of the girls. It made him happy that she found joy in corners and beams of filtered sunlight where she could. It was a rare gift. It surprised him it didn't bother him more, what she did. All the men she had lain with. It didn't. Not much. She had a job. She was doing it, and he hoped she found at least some pleasure in it.

He wanted to hold her, loosely, and with care, the way one holds a bird or some other sort of wild creature that nestles into the warmth of a hand or body, that chooses to allow itself to be cradled and cared for. He felt protective over her, though she obviously did not need his protection. He wondered sometimes what it would be like to have her softness and fire murmuring to him in bed at night. He wondered what it would be like to be good to someone and have them be good to him in return. He wondered what she had lived through, if her family had been kind to her or cruel; what events pulled her along into this life in which she didn't quite seem to fit? He wanted to know her. When it came down to it, he was a coward and couldn't bring himself to ask.

Instead he smiled with closed lipped bashfulness and let himself be drawn into her jokes and laughter. Sometimes they talked quietly and sighed. She was the only one he told of his irrational longing for the wide open rolling moors of north Yorkshire and the deep bone cold of the winters there.

There were nights when he didn't know what the hell he was doing here, a continent and an ocean away from his aging mother and his home, dragging his sore ass three and a half mile round trip, to see to helping a grown man change out if his clothes, when there was whiskey in his cabin and a card game in the barracks. He hated that the closest bookstore was in Santa Cruz and even that wasn't a proper bookstore. The nearest proper bookstore was in San Jose, and it was not a journey he enjoyed. Those were the nights where his tells were easier to read and his limp more pronounced. When his mood was foul. But those nights all it took was a glimpse of her through the windows to settle him.

When she was working she was all charm and smiles and flash. She flirted and enticed. He watched her once, could only bear a close viewing the once, as she hung from the waist of a gangly jack he half knew. Watched her convince him with a squeeze of his hip and the tipping of hers. She angled her smile up at the tall young man with her usual sweetness, but even from his seat at The Queen of Hearts, he could see the falseness in it. Everything about her looked posed and forced, with practiced ease, to be sure, but still. The man had tried to kiss her, but she turned her cheek to him and said something. He grin and fondled her breast through her clothes. She swatted his hand away and bade him follow her inside. He did. After that John Bates paid his bill and road up the mountain. Saying he was surprised it didn't bother him more was not the same as saying it did not bother him at all.

It was three months, late March before he went into The Garden the first time. He hadn't seen or talked to her for a week. Not since he saw her as she walked out of the house and purposefully towards Mount Hermon road Tuesday afternoon. By the following Wednesday he was not worried, not exactly; curious and concerned perhaps.

When he sat at the bar a fat older woman with an obscene amount of bosom spilling out of her corset, slopped some whiskey into a shot glass for him. "Tokens for a bath are a half dollar, tokens for a girl are two."

He shook his head. "Just the drink."

She cocked her head, sized him up in two blinks.

"You're Annie's gentleman caller," she stated bluntly and chuffed. "I ought to charge you a token a week for all that girl's time you waste. You're definitly paying double for that whiskey. What the hell you doing muddling her head?"

"I assume you are Vi?" She nodded and raised an eyebrow. He looked at her. "You seem to be turning a fair business, despite any head muddling you seem to think me guilty of; besides Annie isn't interested in me like that..."

Her laughter split the air, interrupting him. "You want to pique that girl's interest, buy a token."

"Seems to me, a young woman like Miss Lark is quite a draw, place like this. We never talk for more than a few minutes at a time, and if we do, it is when she doesn't have any jacks occupying her."

Vi snorted, "She ain't being _occupied_ by any jacks, because she's out talking to you."

A retort was swallowed down, like so much gristle. He kept his face smooth. It wouldn't do to anger Vi, who would only take it out in Anna. "You said a token is two dollars?" He asked, already knowing the answer. "A token a week since we met, by my reckoning is twenty six dollars give or take two. Here's thirty. That enough for you to let her be regarding what little time she spends talking to me?" It was nearly his entire month's wages. But he had plenty set by for a rainy day, and Norah-Jane's cooking, and a bottle of whiskey besides, enough that he would be fine until the next time he was paid.

Vi eyed the bank notes on the bar. "For a few weeks, long as she isn't shirking her _other_ customers."

He felt his ears burn. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell her I paid you."

"What, so she won't find out that you are the same as all her other johns? Only, they are smart enough to pay for her pussy and not just her time."

He swallowed another retort. Stood on his bad ankle and breathed into the pain as he stood. Let the pain eclipse his anger and draw his focus. The drops of laudnam were waiting for him. He had been cutting back. Which meant he was drinking more whiskey. Not much more. Maybe only half again what he usually drank. It was how the scales balanced. He decided then and there to stop walking the trip entirely and consistently make use of His Lordship's horse. It was ridiculous to walk the whole way and lay waste to his leg when His Lordship had two horses just stood in stalls.

"If you want to keep getting your money," he growled his irritation at the woman. "You won't tell her." He decided he didn't like Vi. And then he decided he wasn't proud and asked his next question anyway, "Where's she been these last few days, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I do mind your asking, but it's a free country. She been up at Miss Minnie's place. Nursing a doxy cunt as used to work here over to t'other side. Now _you_ don't mind I have a slew of jacks and johns as need a bit of tenderness. I assume as stupid as you are you can find the door when you're done sipping that whiskey like it's fucking tea?"

He glared at her in silence as she ambled away laughing to herself.

He hadn't been to Miss Minnie's before, but he had bought fruit preserves and pickles from her along with some cream or His Lordship's arthritis that seemed to work far better than the rub the town doctor prescribed. As strange as she was, he very much liked the woman. She was roughly his age and trundled her wares into town and up to the lime works on a regular basis. She was very nearly a general store on wheels. She was as hard and weather-beaten as most of the jacks, and ornery besides. She had a somewhat disgruntled old draft horse that pulled her cart up and down the same mountain road he walked.

He knew where her family property was though. He passed the road in every time he came down the mountainside from his cabin near the lumber and lime works barracks. It wasn't a cabin so much as it was a glorified lean-to. At least it afforded him a touch of solitude in the night. He was less at Lord Grantham's beck and call this far from the peer, who favored it beyond discouraging their undeserved reputation, for his servant's proximity to his investments. He would see to tacking on a proper a stall for whichever horse he rode home at night. Mountain Mike claimed to have shot the last grizzly bear a few years before, but that didn't mean it was true.

He caught sight of her when he rounded a curve in the narrow road. She was born to be amongst the green, he thought. Outside, in the open air. He smoothed the smile that threatened to betray his joy at happening upon her.

Her hair was tied up neatly under a smart, simple hat. The dress she wore was blue. It was plain and sensible. She looked at bit like a farmer's wife. A very somber, sorrowful farmer's wife.  
Her face brightened a bit when she looked up at the sound of hoof-falls and saw him, "Mr. Bates, what a lovely surprise. I was..." Suddenly she gave a sort of yelp and arms flew out instinctively as she stumbled. Her baskets fell, scattering greens and beets and carrots over the ground.

She didn't fall. He was grateful for that, as he slid off of Isis. Stooping, he snatched a basket and began to fill it.

"No! What are you doing?" She took the basket from his hands, flustered. He ignored her and continued gathering her fallen produce. "I mean to say, thank you. But, please don't Mr. Bates, I'm fine. What if someone happened upon us? What would people say? I won't have anyone think ill of you, not on my account."

"Anyone who would think ill of me for helping you is no concern of mine," he said warmly, snatching a carrot. "It only shows their own lack of character if they don't know how to treat a lady."

She laughed out loud, her smile lingering, "Be that as it may, I'm not a lady and never claimed to be."

There were times when he forgot; to hide his expression, to guard his glances, when he forgot she didn't love him back, didn't desire him for more than his kindness or company, when he forgot to censor his words. They slipped out now, humming in the air between them, "You're a lady to me. And I never knew a finer one."

She looked at him opaquely, her smile gone, and he knew he had crossed a line. He closed his eyes and reached blindly for the last beet, depositing it in her basket before giving her an awkwardly garnered smile and catching up Isis' reins.

"Mr. Bates," her voice was small, her footfalls on the packed dirt behind him. He turned to her with the kindest face he could muster. Jumped a little, surprised by the touch of her fingers when she pressed a coin into his palm. The clasp of her hand made his breath catch. She held his eyes and the yearning he thought he saw in them shocked him.

It wasn't a proper coin, but a token. Like the one's for which he had just paid her madam. How the saloons got around the law. His brow furrowed when he strung it all together on the same string and realized her intent.

"I don't ... I don't want this from you." He stumbled over his words, flushed and hot with embarrassment at being caught out in his more than brotherly affection for her. She frowned and looked away; he hated for her to frown.

The pure bell of her words rang hollow and soft. "I'm sorry. I thought... I didn't mean to..."

Did she look embarrassed? No. She certainly couldn't be disappointed. It couldn't have been yearning he saw. She glanced back at him. He had misread things before in his life, so many times. It wouldn't be the first time he thought he saw something that wasn't there. He could never let her think this was what he wanted. Yes, he wanted to make love to her, he could not lie to himself about that, but not like this. Never to just use her for his own desires. He reached out and caught her wrist. Her hand was so delicate and small, he turned it over and placed the token back into her palm, gently closing her fingers over it. She took a sharp breath in through her nose, frowned, kept looking away, not meeting his eye. "I'm sorry. I meant no offense. I only wanted to ... I wanted to show you my gratitude, is all. It's all I ..."

"Miss Lark," he interrupted, panicked. His mouth went dry. "Miss Lark ... I ... Please. You mustn't ever think that you need to... That I expect you to ... That you ever owe me anything... I want nothing more from you than your friendship."

"Everyone wants something, even you Mr. Bates." She looked at him for a long time. And with a start he realized he had been moving his thumb slowly back and forth across her wrist.

He let go of her. "I treat you as I do because I am fond of you and it pleases me; not ever so you'll please me."

Annie blinked rapidly and looked at the packed dirt of the road, "I am ever so sorry, Mr. Bates. I hope you will overlook my indiscretion."

"Lord Annie! Please don't apologize, not to me. You've done nothing wrong. I can't," the air felt like breathing in limestone dust after the dynamite blew apart the mountainside. "Not like this." Then he realized what he had said. Abruptly, he lifted one of the baskets from her arms and turned to carry it for her. Couldn't meet her eye. She fell into step next to him. They walked together back to Felton, the horse following behind.

"Weren't you headed the other way?" she asked after a time, glancing sidelong at him.

"Yes, but it pleases me to walk with you," he answered truthfully, feeling his ears and cheeks go hot.

"My friend died," she blurted, suddenly. "Eunice. She worked for Vi too until she got sores. Vi will tolerate a bit of itching, but you're out of a job when you have the sores. After Vi turned her out, she worked holding up the alley wall. Ms. Minnie was letting her stay on, do a bit of sewing to pay for room and board when she couldn't find enough jacks as willing to pay. Last week, she was beaten. No one knows who's done it. She was bleeding somewhere inside and her body was already weak."

She sighed deeply. When he looked at her the muscles in her jaw stood out. "We aren't wicked, you know. Well, some are, but no more than anyone is wicked. We aren't. It's just that a woman's only worth in a man's eyes is between her legs. Especially out here. And if she hasn't great wealth she does what she must. Eunice was a kind woman. And so funny, she was always good for a lark or a laugh. She was my friend." Her words sounded strange, hard and tight. When she stopped speaking tears rolled from her eyes.

Before he could stop himself he caught her up in his arms and stood still in the road, cradling her weeping form to his chest. She was slight, but more solid than he expected and he held her more tightly than was his intention. "I'm so sorry Miss Lark." His words sound empty and hollow, he had no real idea what to say. "She was lucky to have such a friend in you."

"It does no good hating," she murmured, caught up in her thoughts. "It doesn't alter anything but your own heart. I know that. Doesn't fix anything. This is my life. There is no changing what I am. But when things like this happen... It's hard not to be angry. We are more than a hole to fuck or a body to beat." Her words pulled her out of herself. She pushed away from him and dried her eyes. "I'm ever so sorry, Mr. Bates, look at me gone weepy and sentimental, and vulgar to boot." She gripped his hand and forearm briefly. "I hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive me for all of my transgressions today. I am more than a bit out of sorts. It has been a long, sorrowful week. If I am being honest, I am rather poorly."

He shook his head. "You need never apologize, Miss Lark. Not to me. You could never offend me. Not ever."

She looked at him with a guarded expression before sighing and nodding, and resuming their walk. "I cannot tell you how much it means to me to hear you say that, Mr. Bates."


	2. Daylight & Darkness

**A/N: Almost everything is historically accurate aside from one or two omissions of place names, fudging of exact locations, etc. I may edit minor details as I learn new things. This all takes place a few miles from where I live. There are still buildings that were saloons and whorehouses standing. No one talks about the women who worked there. The museums don't. They focus on the lime workers and the lumber jacks, the business owners, schools, and clergy. No one talks about the girls and women working, often against their will, doing what needed to be done to survive. Or try to survive. I am actually trying to edit out and tone down most of the horrific things that probably would have happened to a girl alone in this time period and place. Reviews encouraged. Feedback welcome. I'm feeling nervous about this behemoth.**

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She was tired as dirt. And sore. Her tricks had been rough.

Well, one had been rough (In an eager, inexperienced way, not in a cruel way, which helped.) and one of the others had been old and limp and a long time reaching his release. She had been propped up on her elbow at an odd angle working him with her hand for what felt like forever. Her neck had a crick in it and Vi had been on a tear all night. Still ruffled over the time she took to help ease Eunice's passing, Annie supposed. One could never be sure with Vi. Some days it had nothing to do with anything but who walked into the crosshairs. It was usually her, if only because Vi had Annie neck deep in numbers and orders and managing the comings and goings of the place. They were always tripping on one another.

At least one of her regulars had been by, one who knew her well and who she usually enjoyed. Peace Booth had been a stage coach driver, after surviving the civil war as a young teen, but had recently lost most of his work when the rails were lain in the mountains. Now he drove a team of mules that pulled hunks of split irregular redwood for tindering at the kilns. Even Peace had proved bothersome, though.

Such was her night.

It would appear that the thin strands of her attachment to Mr. Bates had not gone unnoticed. Nothing in this camp was ever kept quiet or private. Not for long. And of course, god forbid anyone should ask her something without having their hand on her ass. At least he had asked her outright.

"How come you been mooning over the Duke's dandy?"

She had raised an eyebrow and tried to keep her expression playful while she hit him with her pillow. "Peace Booth, when have you ever seen me moon?"

She rolled him onto his back and he pressed his thigh up between hers. She affected a moan when he lipped at her breast and rubbed the swollen crotch of his pants, hoping to distract him.

"All I know is since I seen you talking with him, you have times where you get different."

She freed him from his trousers and sank down on him, grunting and looking away. She knew exactly what he was talking about; the moments when she was pretending it was him inside of her. She hoped any coloring she did would be confused with the flush of arousal and exertion; tried to form a sultry expression when she looked back at him. He unhooked her busk and then his hands were teasing her breasts. At the very least, he understood how to do this and several other things properly.

"You aren't making any sense, you fool man," she obfuscated, rolling here eyes in a slightly exaggerated way, tipping her hips to meet his strokes, and listening to the sharpness of his breath for her cues. "What business would I have mooning over the Dandy? Do you know me no better than that?"

She had focused her attention on him and made sure to distract him as fully and thoroughly from his train of thought as she could. It wasn't enough, he still fucked her like he had something to prove. It was tiresome when men tried to force pleasure out of her. So she did what she always did, pretended to enjoy herself more than she was and made eyes at him and said little things to speed him along, about how good he was, how big he was, and how good he felt, whatever load of horse-shit and bollocks he wanted to hear. Each man was different with what he needed. And she knew Peace Booth backwards and forwards. Harmless, and all talk, but usually trying to prove something he didn't need to, in every aspect of his life. She was fond of him, or at least not opposed to him. She felt a bit sorry for him most of the time. His lot in life had been easily as hard as hers, and losing his main source of income was a staggering blow to his ego. The logging operation paid him decent wages, but nowhere near what he was making driving a stage coach. He was usually a bit less aggressive and a bit more attentive. This night he walked the edge of roughness. He knew what she would and wouldn't tolerate and skirted it the whole encounter. It left a sour taste in her mouth. With him gone, she had washed herself for her next trick and looked out Fern's window to the street out of habit. She pretended it wasn't for him, but it was. And then she felt her stomach sink, because he was there, talking to what very much looked like Peace. She moved away from the window and squared her shoulders. It didn't matter. The mule man would run his mouth off, and Mr. Bates would think what he would think, both of Peace and of her. And perhaps it was for the better. It was wrong letting him grow attached. She closed herself off from the panic that started to open like a hole low in her gut. She took a few deep breaths, and slipped her Alyssum on, as it were. She had the rest of the night to see to, after all. When she went downstairs she made sure to look for him, but he had gone.

Fern had locked Vi in her room while Annie was still tending to Peace's needs, which was some sort of a relief. The woman finally passed out just before four in the morning after hollering on and off about cocksuckers and politicians for the better part of two hours, only to rouse when Annie unlocked the door and slipped into bed beside her. She didn't protest when Vi mumbled something and pulled her hand to the slit in her bloomers. It didn't more than a few minutes for Annie to tease an orgasm from her. Easier and faster than the whiskey fueled argument that would ensue if she refused and fully roused Vi to waking. She didn't mind, not really. At least she didn't have to sleep by herself.

When Vi fell back asleep a short while later, she slept like the dead. Annie wondered if she slept like that because she drank or if she drank like she did so that she would be able to sleep. Annie couldn't find her way to sleep herself. It never seemed to fully come to her. A few minutes here, a half hour there, and then she would jerk awake, floundering and gasping like a fish out of water. Being drunk when she fell asleep didn't lengthen her rest, it just meant her head spun and she felt nauseous when she woke up in a cold sweat a half hour later. She knew she dreamed but could never remember any of them, only waking to the sensation of panic and trying to get away.

The sun broke the horizon and washed the room in pale morning light before Annie slid from under Vi's sleep laden arm. She sat on the bed and stared at her for a minute. Open mouthed and snoring, without her anger to poison her, Vi was a handsome woman, buxom and solid, and pillowed as a cushion. Her long chestnut brown hair was streaked through with silver. The thick rope of it draped over her throat, obscured part of her chin.

Annie scrubbed her hands over her face. The fingers of her right hand smelled of the other woman. She didn't begrudge her a bit of release. Not at all. It was just some nights she wanted to be let alone. She sighed and slipped out to wash in Fern's room. If Vi was being extra wretched she stayed in Fern and Dawn's room. She never did like to sleep alone. Not from the time she was little. Especially not now. Not since the other place. Fern's bed was untouched. Dawn's was empty, but left mussed. Annie straightened the sheet out of habit. Fern was probably sleeping in Séam's room. They were like brother and sister, those two; slept like litter mates sprawled across each other when Vi was too drunk to pay attention, which was most nights. They understood each other. And Fern had no reason to lie. If the towering redhead said they were only sleeping, well then, they were only sleeping. Real kinship in this business was hard to come by; knowing the two of them had one another warmed her. Vi didn't believe that they weren't fucking, and tended to watch them like a hawk if she was able. Fortunately, that was less and less as the years stretched on.

Stealing away early, before Vi was up would earn her some sort of passive or not-so-passive retribution, but she was beyond caring and determined not to let it color her day. Dawn and Daphne were already banging around the kitchen and were perfectly capable of handling the Sunday morning crowd. She would be back in time to earn the old cow her money.

The sky was too blue and the trees that still stood were too green to stay inside today. She padded into the back garden, corset-less and barefoot to check on her plants. Something had upset some of the pea starts, but nothing a bit of tamping down of the soil wouldn't fix. She squatted amidst the shoots and leaves and touched small plantlets with the pads of her fingers. As she was oft wont to do, she wondered if she would see him that night. She hugged her knees. Since refusing the token, he hadn't been as much of a presence. She had only seen him a few times in the two weeks and it concerned her. Despite his insistence that he wasn't offended, she wasn't sure. Not that it mattered, after whatever Peace told him.

Thinking of handing him the coin made her stomach clench. At the time it seemed a way to thank him - that perhaps she could show him what she couldn't say. It had been a bad idea. A selfish idea. He was always so good spirited towards her. And that day particularly she had needed... She paused, mulling over her thoughts. Then she acknowledged what it was that had motivated her and it left her ashamed. She had needed comfort that day. She had been feeling so broken from being present at the death of yet another girl. A girl as dear and wonderfully spirited as Eunice. It was a way to thank him, but really it was a selfish act. She had needed to be held and to feel cared for. Only her Mr. Bates would have closed her fingers back over the token. Only he would so gently refuse her and then hold her and murmur to her anyway a while later when her edges cracked and she started to spill over. She had clung tightly to him in that moment, cherished the strength and comfort she drew from him. Looking back, her actions embarrassed her. She hated to think that she had taken advantage of his kindness, but hadn't she tried to?

There was no way around the notion that she was growing too fond of him and that he had already grown entirely too fond of her. This would not end well, she knew. Shame pricked at her throat that she had let it continue thus far. She needed to be pushing him off, not holding him closer.

It was no easy act to turn away from him. Not when he made her smile. Really made her smile. No one listened to her the way he did. He heard what she said, paid heed to it and remembered. He was sweet and sincere and asked nothing, though she could feel his want like heat sheeting off of him. She should discourage him. She would bring him nothing but pain. Everything she touched seemed to turn to shit in the end. But she could not help glance for him through the window at times when she knew he was more likely to pass by. Or think of the gentle hunger with which he regarded her, in the quiet of the early morning when no one else was awake and she had a few moments' peace to dip her hand between her thighs and enjoy the possibilities of her own body.

Her desire for him surprised her. She rarely wanted the men she bedded. Desire had little to do with the profession the fates forced her into. Vi had shown her the tricks to finding her own pleasure and she had been shocked at how boundless it could be; she learned to enjoy the mechanics of the act in ways she hadn't known were possible while she was at the other place. She didn't talk about the other place, or him that Vi had saved her from. It was nothing but violation after violation. Bruises, boot toes, and bite marks, and the acrid smell of piss and fear. Memories of the cloying, burning, floral scent of opium filling her nose and throat. She took a deep breath. It was done. Past. She wasn't there anymore. She had gotten away. Vi had chased him off, paid him off, and locked her in a room to sweat the opium out of her blood.

She had come out of that hazy tunnel of pain into not peace, but a better existence than the one she had been living, to be sure. She could never stay too angry with Vi. Not after all the woman had done for her. So she more or less did what was bid of her. Be it scrub vomit off the floor boards, teach methods and specific techniques to the newer girls, or sing bawdy songs in her corset and bloomers thrice a night. The only thing she put her foot down about was turning girls out for showing signs of disease or returning to opium. No amount of cajoling on Vi's part could move her on this. If Vi wanted them gone, Vi could bloody well tell them herself. Annie would not do that bidding.

Vi railed and blustered, but Annie was one of only two of Vi's girls who could read and write and the only one who knew how to do the books, which Vi hated. As soon as she had that figured, she understood her value within the house, and made damn sure that Vi needed her. Which pissed Vi off even more when Annie stood up to her. Still. The woman was usually fair with wages and hours worked, and she had Séamus throw any tricks who were acting up out on their ear. The girls were allowed to refuse jacks they didn't like, and Vi stood behind all of them when it came to that. Vi ran the bath house next door, and she herself made the rule that any men as wanted service, personal service, that is, needed to visit the bath house, or if they were saving their money, the creek out back.

Annie remembered the gratitude she felt, the pure, overwhelming gratitude at being able to bathe whenever she wished. After the dark, (It was always dark there, without windows, or choices, or fresh air.) to be clean and free to move about was like being made new, like being born all over again. Such a blessing. Add on top of that the rule that the men had to wash before helping themselves to her and that she had final say on who actually did help themselves to her and she would have done nearly anything for the woman from then on. She did do nearly anything for Vi from then on. Regardless of the fact that the only difference in her life was that Vi owned her and not him. She knew she was still a thrall and had no real say over whether she sold her body or not, and that fact and time had worn her gratitude thin, but a strange sort of love had grown from her heart to tangle itself about the bitter old cow.

Vi was a cheerful, wicked tongued inebriate until she wasn't anymore and then it was best to just lock her in her room until she passed out. When she got like that she couldn't hold her hand still enough to unlock the door even if she could find the key. She was a crotchety old bitch, to be sure, (She wasn't quite old exactly - more time worn and world weary.) but she usually meant well. Bless her, for all her faults; nothing could bring Annie to hate her, though a fair amount of the time she wanted to.

She let the swaying of leaves focus the wanderings of her mind. She stood from her crouch in the back garden and stretched her back. The air was somewhat fresh, the breeze thinned out the overwhelming smell of livestock and woodsmoke, sawdust and unwashed lumberjacks all pressed tight together. The calm was shattered by a dynamite blast from up the mountainside. The blasts came regular all day long and well into the night, from the quarry up past the lime works. They were disconcerting to be sure, but she barely jumped at all anymore. The day was sunny and cool. Certainly too cool outside at night to sow summer vegetables, but Annie had her peppers, cucumbers, eggplant, tomatoes, and squash starting in tin cans on Vi's window sill. She needed to talk to Miss Minnie about how she got her carrots and beets to grow so very plump; hers were always scrawny. Vi was happy to let her muck about in the dirt out back, especially if it meant fresh free vegetables for the kitchen and flowers in empty whiskey bottles on the bar. She never said so, but Annie could tell that it tickled the dark haired woman that The Garden had an actual garden.

Annie suddenly wanted Mr. Bates to see it and know it was the work of her hands. She would walk him round back when it was later in the season and there was more growing than chard, miner's lettuce, peas, and dandelion greens. It struck her as odd that this was important to her. It was, though: she felt it in a warm place in her chest. Maybe he would sit and chat with her while she dug and planted. Then she shook her head. Inviting him back here would be the furthest thing from pushing him away. She sighed, brushed off her hands, and went inside to quietly change into her dress, upstairs.

She had washed her face clean of eye black and rouge in Fern's room when she first got up and had stared at her bloodshot eyes and sallow skin in the milky reflection. She sighed as she faced the looking glass again and thrust her chin forward. Vi's increased inebriation was forcing her to cut down on her own, which was nothing but good. She always looked and felt terrible after she drank more than two shots in a night. Examining her face from one angle and then another, she decided that she looked old. She felt old, she wasn't yet twenty seven, but she may as well have been fifty seven.

Her hair felt dry; maybe Vi would let her use her perfumed almond oil. If there was one thing Vi was vain about it was her hair. It was thick and wavy and it shone in the sun. That was one job Annie never minded, taming and oiling Vi's fresh washed hair. Her own hair annoyed her. It had no life, just lay flat and smooth and slipped out of pins and ties like water. It felt nice, when it was fresh combed and clean, but mostly it seemed to argue with her and fight everything she tried to do with it. She sighed several times as she brushed and braided and twisted and pinned it up and then secured the hat in place over that. Little wisps fought their way nearly immediately free. The fabric of her dress was worn beneath her hands as she smoothed them down the bodice and over her hips. She looked like she barely had two quarters to rub together, but she was modest and presentable. She needed to sit down with this dress and really work it over. It had too many poorly executed repairs.

The walk to the Felton train depot was short. Less than a mile. And it hadn't rained for a few weeks, so she walked on dirt, not dust or sucking mud. Sunday mornings tended to roll quietly in on the town. Those whose shifts let them enjoy Saturday night were passed out in their bunks or scattered in nooks and crannies throughout the main stretch of town. Those who were just ending their day (For the blasting didn't continue all night, but the kiln fires did.) dragged themselves into waiting saloons with kitchens and coffee, like The Garden. Dawn was likely getting ready to start barking at Daphne to get the damn coffee served. That poor girl got it from all sides. She stretched her shoulders and neck as she walked and sighed happily when maligned bones popped and settled into place. The sun warmed her in the most delightful of ways. Days like this it was easy to forget the mess of her life for a little while, at least.

She queued up with a handful of jacks, two of whom actually tipped their hats to her and three rather affluent looking gentlemen who did not, and paid her fifty cents for the round-trip train ride. That left her with thirty cents that she had skimmed off of the top of her tips for the occasion. She would buy a bite to eat or some fish from Lit. She hated spending any of her money, squirreled away almost everything she earned. But she also needed to breathe from time to time. If the occasional train ride into Santa Cruz kept her sane while she saved money to pay off Vi, so be it.

She looked at her reflection on the inside of the train window. The dark blue printed calico scattered with paler blue flowers was old but it was the one dress she owned that covered her from ankle to neck. She wore her good straw hat with the pale blue paper flowers that she had managed to keep dry and intact through the winter rainy season. Crossing her ankles beneath her skirt, she imagined the fabric was crisp and new, that she was posh: a governess or a music teacher on her way to educate her charges for the day. She sat primly and let her eyes fall on the line of the ridge, covered in the stubble of giant tree stumps and rode silently, and thankfully unmolested, to the depot near the mouth of the San Lorenzo River. Some tycoon had built a public bathhouse and there was usually a buzzing turnout of bathers and men with fishing poles fishing the river. In the time she had lived in the county she had watched it grow and swell to include little shops and curios and many local people hawking their wares to wealthy tourists from San Jose and San Francisco. There was enough commerce out of this strip of beach to necessitate three wharves. Lit inhabited the mouth of the middle one. He always complained about the Italian families that had the more desirable positions further down.

It was days like this she was grateful to have made it all the way to coastal California. The winters were warmer than she had been accustomed, and the heat in summer was blown away by the chill of the Pacific Ocean all but a week or so a year. The nights were always cool. Alice had liked it. Especially when the sun was warm and the breeze cool. Thoughts drifted like shoals of fish through Annie's mind. Some swam past her, some darted off when she tried to look at them closely. She had managed to keep her money making activities limited to what she could do with her hands in the dark of an alley or under the pier for the time before Alice was gone. She had gone out during the day to "work at the laundry" and then snuck back out again at night after Alice had fallen asleep. She managed to keep what she did hidden from both their landlady and Alice. Managed to keep Alice away from it and blissfully ignorant. She did what she had to do to take care of her sister. And she took good care of Alice, until she couldn't anymore.

There were times, in the other place that she was grateful that Alice had died, because they would have taken her, too. She could hear girls crying through the walls that sounded so much younger. The opium helped drown that out. She had been grateful for the opium too, for the hazy oblivion it brought after they first forced it on her to keep her subdued and quiet. But that was another thing best not dwelt upon. She didn't like how pensive she was feeling, didn't like the thoughts that kept swimming past her field of vision. Wasn't sure what brought it all on.

Her shoes clicked over the cobbled streets. She let her eyes go lazy and take in the bustle of the fish market. She enjoyed the throng, though it made her a touch nervous too. She stayed away from it at first, stepped down into the sand, closer to Cowell Wharf. That was the one the lime works owned. She hadn't thought to bring her button hook. She would have liked to walk to the edge of the sand and put her toes in the cold surf. She missed her sister. Blinked her eyes fast and smiled at the sea. Squinting at the glittering expanse of blue, she sighed. As beautiful as it was, the sea always made her melancholy. She always managed to forget this until she was faced with it. She found a boulder and sat on it for a while, breathed the salt air blowing off the water.

When she was ready to face the bustle, she meandered down through the fish market near the railroad wharf and looked at the day's catch. A few down here knew her from Felton. For the most part she enjoyed as much anonymity as any other woman whose only presentable dress had so many mended tears. (And a few questionable stains that stubbornly refused to be removed.) Which was most of the fisherman's wives. Her other dresses earned her more money and as such were much more dutifully tended. There was no denying who she was, but she could pretend while she went from catch to catch.

The fishermen never seemed quite comfortable in the company of women, even the ones whose wives helped them sell their catch, but this only amused her and made her try harder to put them at ease. One particularly shy older man proved to be so thrown by her that the first handful of times she visited his catch he was as silent as the fish he'd netted. Finally she prised him open like a mussel or an oyster and once he started to talk, she was hard pressed to silence him. He slipped her treats, like her uncle - her mother's younger brother - used to. He never asked anything in return from her but her company and her stories and she loved him for it.

He had netted bushels and bushels of sardines the first day he spoke with her and sold them with hand signals and grunts. It wasn't that he couldn't talk, he had explained, it was that people never listened anyway. He sent her with enough sardines that day that the other girls and Vi and Séamus besides could have a sardine or two with their supper if they wished.

She always told him about the train ride, conversations she overheard. She took the the rails down most Sunday mornings. It was usually the day when Vi slept latest. Over the years she told him nearly everything. About her sister. About Vi on her good days and her bad. About parts of her life she didn't know she remembered in the rolling Yorkshire countryside. She asked him once if she could go fishing with him.

He had laughed. "Anytime you like. But, you'll have to get up damn early to join me, mija."

He told her the ocean's mood on any given day, the animals he encountered; big and small birds, whales, dolphins, giant sharks. When her garden was producing full bore, she brought him baskets of vegetables.

He told her a story once about a huge shark with a mouth big enough to swallow two men whole. It swam near their boat. Its dorsal and tail fins cut the surface of the water to the height of a man sitting in a row boat; which was to say, as tall as he was. Then other fins started to lift out of the water and they were surrounded by these slow moving whale sized fish. If any of the sharks would have bumped into the boat it would have capsized. They didn't, though. They swam with slow grace, mouths like gaping funnels, gill slits wide, through that corner of the Monterey Bay. They formed a lazy, arcing line of sharks, nose to tail, that went on and on. His eyes were wide as he painted the story and his hands moved through the air to punctuate his statements. His friends called him Paulo. His mother and sister called him Paulito. She took to calling him Lito, which she then shortened to Lit. Didn't seem right to take the name his mother and sister used, and she was far too fond of him to use his proper given name.

He wasn't in his usual spot. It worried her a bit. She hoped it was because he sold all of his catch and returned to his home with money in his pocket and a bit of fish offal wrapped in yesterday's paper for his cat, Gatito. It wouldn't be the first time. The wife of the fisherman in the spot next to Lit's eyed her with open distaste.

She walked on, he would be there the following Sunday, and if he wasn't she would ask on him then. The oyster-monger was her weakness. His wife, Marjorie, was always sweet to her, to the degree that sometimes Annie wondered what she had done before she became a oyster-monger's wife. She bought her usual two oysters, raw with a bit of lemon juice. Marjorie was wicked with an oyster knife and had them open, loose, and resting in their shells before Annie could fish out her dime. She jumped as an arm reached past her to drop a quarter in Marjorie's hand. She immediately relaxed and smiled at the familiar burr near her ear.

"Three more, please."

She did nothing to hide her smile as she took her two oysters and turned to him. "Mr. Bates! Thank you!"

He took his oysters raw as well and naked, as it were, with nothing but the liquor they floated in.

They both nodded their thanks to Marjorie, who smiled a bit too sweetly and busied herself with another customer. He swallowed one of his oysters right away, to better hold the other two and indicated an empty bench a short ways away. "Care to join me?"  
She found herself nodding and following him before she could think. His limp was a bit more pronounced than it had been.

"Have you ever had Whitby oysters?" He asked when they had settled side by side on the bench with a respectable distance between them. If Peace had said vengeful things about her, Mr. Bates didn't seem to be taking them to heart.

"I have," she chirped with surprising pride. "Me Da dragged us out there in our cart the one time. We piled together under blankets in the cart that night when he couldn't find us a room. It was some event, some festival. I don't even remember what they were celebrating. Mar was enormous with Alice and it was just us three. And the next day he and I ate all the oysters we could. At three different stalls." She giggled, and then laughed out loud. "Poor Mar had to take the reins all the way home, Da was so sick that afternoon. Of course, he had had more than his share of cider with his oysters."

They laughed together. He sipped at a shell and raised his eyebrows at her. She wasn't sure of his age exactly. She guessed he was easily thirteen or fourteen years her senior, likely more. But when he looked at her like that, with that little half smile, he looked like one of the boys who came to her before their beards had fully grown in. She wanted to stand behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. To touch the close cut hair at the nape of his neck. He was coiffed and pomaded, looking a proper valet gone to run respectable errands. It made her smile. She loved how easy it was to smile and laugh with him. And to fall silent with him. Their silences were usually companionable.

The delicate oyster brine opened and burst with lemon juice on her tongue. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed it. Few other things tasted so perfectly of the ocean. She relished this splurge when it was the months for shellfish. Remembered it had been his splurge, not hers. She wiped her fingers on her handkerchief and made sure they were clean before she touched his sleeve. Let her hand fall with just enough pressure that she could feel him beneath the cloth.

"Thank you again. You didn't need to buy mine."

"Nonsense." His eyes brightened. He winked at her. "It's how one treats a lady."

She rolled her eyes at him, gave him a smirk. Let him smile a bit, really took it in and enjoyed it before she dropped her eyes to her hands and murmured, "Cheeky."

"I think I'll have a few more, fancy another round?

She looked at him, tried to decide if his eyes were grey or green, shook her head, "No. But thank you."

He came back with more for them both. Balancing two oysters in each hand, he smiled, offered one pair to her. "Do me a favor and eat these anyway. I'm my mother's boy; got to make sure everyone is well fed. Humor me."

She nipped at the corner of her mouth and accepted the shellfish graciously. She took her time downing first one, then the other. He had remembered the lemon juice. Must have overheard her order from Marjorie. They ate in silence. She listened to the waves and the gulls, one was eyeing their oyster shells murderously.  
Mr. Bates had a strong nose. She had noticed it before, but enjoyed it out of the corner of her eye regardless. It gave him a striking profile. She smiled.

When he finished his oysters, he wiped his own hands clean with a pristine looking pocket square and pulled on first one glove, then the other.  
"I have two more errands to run, on my way back to the train. Will you perchance be returning to Felton on the 11:45?"

She was planning on staying away from The Garden longer, but found herself nodding.

He smiled. "Well, then. I hope you will save me a seat."

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and ears, and could only smile and nod. Her eyes followed him as he walked unevenly away. Until he slipped into the throng of people. Then she dropped her head and sighed. This would not end well for either of them.


	3. Fences

**A/N: My cousin had a baby, or this would have been posted yesterday. Also. Bugs was an amazing beta for this chapter. Thank you all so much for the continued support, reblogs, and reviews! Enjoy.**

At quarter past eleven, Annie approached the train depot partially cradling partially lugging a piece of driftwood. She had collected it on the beach between the wharves, after Mr. Bates disappeared into the crowd, and now there was sand in her shoes for her trouble. Nearly the entirety of the walk had been spent chiding herself. These were the flutters and sweetnesses of an adolescence long gone. Decidedly best ignored. She wondered if this was part of what had brought on her days' long bout of melancholia and introspection. It made her remember when her future had been before her and her life had had possibilities. She might have...

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep, slow breath. It didn't matter. She was where she was. Opening them, she squinted at the wide sun-warmed expanse of sandy ground that was the depot. The heat of the sun was lovely, but the lot was far too exposed. Though no one else lingered, people were passing by and she wished to avoid giving the appearance of waiting for someone. If there was anyone aware of the vulnerability of a woman of small stature and no means, it was Annie Lark.

She tucked herself in the shade of a thickly gnarled tree. It was on the seaward side of the open expanse. She remembered how Lit had been selling sculpin the day that he had taught her that the trees flanking the depot and growing along the cliffs on the western end of Santa Cruz were called cypress. He knew most of the names of the animals that surrounded them and some of the plants and trees besides. While she waited for the train, (while she waited for Mr. Bates,) she wrote out the names she could remember in the sandy soil with her driftwood. It was roughly the length of her leg, thick as her thigh at one end and twisting and narrowing to the width of a man's thumb at the other. It was a heavy and ungainly writing instrument, but she rather enjoyed the practice. Vi gave her no end to grief if she worked on her writing at the house. The dark haired woman went on about her getting above her place, being too good for the rest of them. "You already know how to write, what's the point in perseverating over the thing? No need in all the world for a whore's letters to scroll and swoop like a rich man's wife." At least she didn't criticize Annie when she taught the girls who wanted to learn the skill themselves. Vi felt it was important for everyone to be able to functionally read and write. Teaching the girls was the only real way for Annie to practice.

Nothing was private in the house, which meant there was no way in hell that she could keep any sort of journal and she had no one with whom she could exchange letters. She wasn't sure how to spell most of the names Lit taught her but she did her best to sound them out. The giant sharks were called basking sharks and there were sleek brown sea lions, smaller grey spotted harbor seals, enormous and wrinkled elephant seals, thickly pelted sea otters and so very many different sorts of birds. She didn't remember half of the names Lit had taught her.

She maintained a cautious awareness of the area around her while she added to her list of local flora and fauna in the protective embrace of the cypress. She had learned to look out for herself in her eleven odd years in America. She had been an innocent fool girl once; she was still paying for it all these years later. She'd be damned if she would let her guard down again. She'd known every sort of man, had been with every sort of man and trusted few of them.

She trusted John Bates, or at least trusted him to mean well and follow his own code, which was nearly the same thing. But then, he was not just any sort of man. A decidedly good thing, she thought, because she was sick to death of men and everything they wanted from her or to do to her.

There were the men who wanted nothing more than to spill their seed and go back to drinking or cards, men who wanted to paw at her and weren't satisfied until she pretended pleasure at their actions, soft men, hard men, cruel men, weeping emotional men. From time to time there were women passing as men, which was a surprising and memorable variation on her life's theme. There were boys trying to be men, old men reliving their youth, men with something to prove, sentimental men, men with a burning need to burden her with their confessions, sweet, homesick men, mama's boys, gentlemen, wealthy men, pompous men, and men that made her skin crawl for no particular reason other than the way they looked at her like she was meat.

She had limited patience for the ones who were missing someone, who tried to treat her like a wife or lover they had left behind - like a wife or lover to whom they were supposed to be returning home. It wasn't that she didn't want intimacy or softness. She enjoyed them very much; in her life they were few and far between. It was ... she wasn't quite sure what. The lie of it all, perhaps. The loving touches that weren't directed at her, not really, though she was the recipient of them. Maybe it was a reminder of what she'd lost. She didn't mind being their whore; she had grown to consider it a compassion, a service and a challenge; taking care of these men, seeing through the bravado and the belly-aching and posturing to what it was they really wanted, really needed from her. So many of them were floundering and lost, suffering and homesick; she didn't begrudge them the bit of solace that they found in her smile or nestled between her breasts or legs. She simply didn't like being the replacement.

If she had her druthers they would, for the most part, bend her over and take care of their business quickly. She preferred not having to see them screw their faces up over her, or feel the weight of them crush the air from her lungs while their sweat dripped on her face. She didn't like having to force a smile when they were to fumbling or rough. She didn't like being trapped under them whilst they found their senses, or if they wanted to talk afterwards. She was usually already thinking about how quickly she could get cleaned up and back on the floor, make sure Fern was all right at the bar and that Sèam wasn't picking fights unnecessarily as he sometimes was wont to do if he was bored or frustrated. She had Vi to look after and the other girls to tend to and encourage. She made sure that the whiskey was flowing and the mood was pleasing. The girls had a nightly quota to hit or they ended up owing Vi money for room, board, frocks and the likes. Annie preferred not to linger on her back when there were tricks to be turned and work to be tended.

She wished she could say she didn't enjoy any of it, that she took no pleasure in whoring, but the body has a mind of its own sometimes and she had so few pleasures in her life that she set herself free to enjoy those as found her. She had learned to take comfort in what human connections she had - strange, awkward or fleeting as they might be. There were men she very much enjoyed - favorites even - that she looked forward to seeing, though she did nothing to delude herself like some of the other girls did that her relationships to any of her tricks were anything but pleasure bought and sold. Taking her pleasure and enjoying herself when and where she could was another in the long string of lessons Vi taught her that made her life bearable.

Her eyes roamed over the bright open landscape of the depot, taking in people that passed through, and a small group of wealthy-looking Big Tree tourists that gathered in a cluster. She couldn't yet see him and loosed a sigh. She needed to find a way to make him see just how misplaced his affections were. The train ride would give her time to make him see sense. Making up her mind, she was determined that she would spare him what she could. He was too dear to her for anything less.

Then she saw him approaching the depot and wearing a half smile. The sort a child affects when he has a secret. He strolled toward the other idling would-be passengers. She felt a pang as she watched him scan the area for her and his smile slip away when he failed to see her through the arms of the cypress. He looked lost. The slight change in his limp worried her, but she daredn't ask on it. She tried to fit an easy smile to her face, then straightened her shoulders, girded herself to face him and pushed through the branches that obscured her.  
He noticed the movement and turned his head in her direction. His face lit brightly when he saw her. All her plans slipped away on the breeze as he strode unevenly over to meet her, a neatly wrapped brown paper package tucked under his arm. Too small to be clothes, too big to be jewelry, not the right shape for cigars. Books, perhaps. For the Duke, she supposed. She didn't guess that Mr. Bates would take the train all this way on an errand for himself. He noticed the driftwood she carried and tilted his head slightly, bemused. She smirked and shrugged.

He touched the brim of his hat as they converged nearer the tracks. He seemed a bit bashful, the boyish joy in his expression melding into something else. His eyes stayed on her; she could feel his gaze, like a touch, or a burn. She couldn't think of anyone ever making her feel that way just in how they looked at her. She tried to decide if his eyes were more grey or more green.

"Do you often carry branches with you, Miss Lark?" he asked with a grin.

"As a matter of fact, I do." She raised her eyebrows at him and laughed. "It's for the garden. Not THE Garden, but our vegetable garden out back. I am determined to erect a fence of sorts, to mark off my beds in effort to discourage drunkards who occasionally wander back that way. I have a growing pile awaiting construction."

"An excellent and artful choice to use driftwood." He nodded, his eyes glinting. "It will stand out at night, as pale as it is. Shall I avail myself to you when the time comes? I don't know how useful I would be, but I can dig a post hole as well as the next person and should be happy to help."

She didn't know what to say to that. Wasn't sure she trusted herself to speak for a moment she felt such a swelling of affection for him.

"Were your errands agreeable, Mr. Bates?" she asked before she could blurt out something ridiculous and tried unsuccessfully to keep her own smile in check. It was a safe topic at the very least, the agreeableness of errands and such.

"Indeed they were, Miss Lark. Thank you." He stepped a touch closer. Just a touch. Still a very respectable distance, she noted. He always kept a respectable distance. He lowered his voice and dipped his head slightly, though the only other people around milled a ways away, and gave her a warm smile. "Not so agreeable as the prospect of your company on the train ride back into the mountains."

She stiffened slightly at his guileless sincerity. Why did he have to say such things? "With as much as I natter on, you're like to regret that statement before we're halfway up the mountainside." She said the words with a smile, but her jest rang hollow. He frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, for the train chuffed into the station, announcing its approach with twelve resoundingly loud double blows of its horn as it chugged and hissed to a slow squealing stop.

Coming from anyone else, his words would have set her teeth on edge and caused her to immediately swing back with any of a hundred quips she used to cut overly solicitous jacks down to size. From his throat, they rang with such honesty they left her aching. When he spoke to her like that, she knew what sort of a lover he would be. She could feel it in the consideration he showed her, the respect with which he treated her, the soft smokiness of the tone he took with her, the tentative way he spoke to her sometimes. The playfulness in their banter. The strength that rode a silent current beneath his skin. She knew exactly how attentive he would be, how focused and driven and passionate. It drew a sensation up from the pit of her belly that frightened her with its enormity. She tamped it down, needed to rid herself of such thoughts. It didn't help when he stepped closer still or when he fit his hand protectively to the slope of her upper back. She failed to fight off the shiver that coursed through her at the contact. He was silent until the ruckus died down.

"I meant that with no irony, Annie. Miss Lark." He leaned close enough that she could feel the wind of his words stir the hair behind her ear.

"I know, Mr. Bates," she spoke gently. "You never would."

She looked at him then, really looked at him. She tried to pour all of her apologies into him with her eyes alone, hoped he could see that she took no offense, hoped he would understand why she had to push him away. He deserved that much, when everything he did and said was so very dear. When he was so very dear.

He turned a bit red and motioned her to ascend the steps of the train ahead of him. She drew a last breath of salt-tinged air deep into her lungs, nodded her thanks and continued with her thought: "It would do you well to mean it with every bit of irony you can muster."

Silent, he offered her his hand to help her onto the steps as though she were a proper lady. He didn't respond to her words but his frown deepened; his distress was clear. Shifting the driftwood under her left arm, she accepted the gesture, the leather of his gloves felt warm and alive under her bare fingers. She held her composure, despite the way he looked at her. He could hold his face so impassively when he needed to, but not just then. It opened a sort of hole inside her, an ancient ache she had forgotten, or never noticed before that moment: she wasn't sure which. She forced herself to hold his gaze as she passed him. Tried to keep her own expression gentle, her tone kind. "I'm sorry," she said, with slow unblinking earnestness. "But it's true."

She could feel his eyes on her back as she climbed the four steep steps; as she moved deeper into the train car to seek a seat. Snugging herself into a cloth-covered bench seat in the far left corner of the car, she didn't know if she should wish for him to sit next to her or pray he did not. He shouldn't sit with her at all. What if someone told the Duke, what then? He approached down the aisle, his expression a mask again of dignity and calm unreadability.

As it was, she couldn't be sure if her prayer was answered or ignored when he chose the seat next to her. He was so close to her, but at least they wouldn't be staring at one another with his concern palpable between them for the duration of the hour long trip.  
She turned her head to regard him. "You are entirely too kind to me, Mr. Bates. I wish you weren't."

A pair of loggers, one broad-chested and one tall and spindly, entered behind them. She had taken note of them. Didn't know their names, but had seen them both before - she was fairly sure they helped Miss Minnie from time to time - and they seemed harmless enough. Paying for too much exuberance the night before, it would seem. The jacks ignored them, intent on nursing their hangovers quietly and from a flask passed between them.

Mr. Bates relaxed slightly. "Oh? Why do you say that?"

"You are far too fine a man to squander valuable time on someone like me."

He chuckled softly. "Shouldn't I have some say in how I squander my valuable time? It is my own, after all." A pleased looking smirk slid over his face.

She frowned and felt the air rush out of her. She lowered her voice so that he leaned in to hear her. "It's not your own time, though, is it. What you do reflects on your reputation, which reflects on the reputation of Duke. It's one thing to pay for services rendered." She colored at her own words. She hadn't meant for him to have to lean in like he did. He was so close to her and all shorn and smooth, oiled and polished, looking every bit the valet. She could see a spot on his neck where his collar chaffed his skin. Miss Minnie would have a cream or salve for that. She kept her voice low. "It is an entirely different thing to be seen with me like this, respectable man like you. People up at camp are starting to notice that we visit with each other from time to time: who knows what sorts of things they'll start saying?"

"I don't give a fig what anyone but you has to say on the matter," he whispered. "Your good opinion is my sole concern."

She chanced a glance at him and regretted it, could read the love on his face like she could read words chalked on a slate. Tears burned hot at the back of her throat. She swallowed them. Swallowed back the strange ache. Willed her heart to stop pounding so fast and loud in her ears. She fixed her gaze on the window and tried to harden herself to the task. There was a wee spider fussing in the lower corner of the wooden sill, fastidiously spinning gossamer fine, barely there threads of silk into the smallest of webs.

"You mustn't say that, Mr. Bates," she rasped, holding her voice as steady as she could, which was nowhere near steady enough. "In this, my opinion is the one thing that doesn't matter."

Gratitude washed over her when he stayed silent and let the issue drop. Still, she needed something safe to think about, safe to look at. She focused on the minute arachnid and how single-mindedly that it tended to its task. She worried suddenly about what would happen to it when workers cleaned the car. It concerned her that it spun it's web with such blind diligence; methodically fulfilling it's one task, oblivious to the tenuous existence it lived. Not knowing it would be crushed and wiped away when the train car was cleaned. This silly thought hit her like a sandbag, tugging hard at her tears. She ran her palm absently over the driftwood and stared at that for a bit until her emotions settled themselves back down. Then he shifted and settled the package he carried on his lap; it seemed a solid enough place to lay her attentions.

"What have you got there? Books for the Duke?" She blushed and looked at her hands, hearing how the words sounded as she spoke them. "Sorry. That was rude. Me ma would have swatted me for being forward and nosy."

He laughed. "I don't mind. It just means you are curious and clever."

She laughed out loud, her body relaxing a bit, the edge of her emotions smoothed over. "How do you figure clever?"

His eyes sparkled, his smile lighting them. She was distracted by a flush of warmth low in her belly. More and more she found herself thinking of him while she was with certain men. Older men, of a particular build, or soft spoken men with strong hands. She wasn't proud of it, but it was what it was. It teased such a different layer of sensation from her, an intensity to her climaxes that she hadn't experienced before. Part of her felt like she should be ashamed of thinking of him like this, especially when she was with other men, but she had so many things in her life of which she was genuinely ashamed that she couldn't bring herself to really regret it. His voice pulled her out of her decidedly inappropriate thoughts.

"It is a clever guess that they are books and for His Lordship." He spoke brightly. "Of course you are clever, you would have to be; I imagine you think and talk your way through all manner of situation in your line of work." He blushed then and sat a bit more rigidly, as if realizing what he had said and the full extent of her work.

She let her gaze slide over the wood grain of the windowsill again, the tenuous cheer having evaporated. The spider had tucked itself away somewhere; she could only find its web. Perhaps it had a chance after all. She felt a strange sense of strength rise within her with this revelation and despite her shame, composed her thoughts for a moment and spoke. "I hope you don't imagine too much," she admitted. "I wouldn't care to have you think too closely on what I do, Mr. Bates. I wouldn't care to have that or anything you found out about me color your opinion."

It was as forward as she could bring herself to be about Peace Boothe. From his expression she gathered that he understood her meaning. He shook his head.

"I shouldn't care what I found out about you. It wouldn't change my opinion of you," he said. "Not one bit." Though the words were spoken softly, his conviction was strong.

She eyed him doubtfully but stayed silent, not really trusting herself to speak. He looked at her for a long time with such tenderness, so long she had to turn her gaze to the window, the seat facing them, her hands, anywhere and everywhere but to him.

"It would," she whispered. "It most certainly would."

She took a steadying breath. Thankfully, her eyes remained dry. He had such an effect on her. She could feel it in her bones, in her gut and it frightened her. It reminded her of years ago when their horse spooked and her mother lost control of the cart for a time. Trapped in a situation bigger than herself, she had been literally along for the ride. It had been terrifying, but maybe a bit exhilarating too. Fortunately she had the presence of mind to help her mother rein in their horse and together they prevailed and brought the beast under control. Alice had been asleep in the back the entire time. She startled when his fingers touched, then cupped her hand where it lay on the seat between them.

"Miss Lark, I know your profession is not who you are," his words sounded rough, faraway.

Taking slow, controlled breaths seemed the only thing in the world she could do. She found she still couldn't look at him, not really. Only in starts and glances out the corner of her eye. She felt a slight ping or a pop somewhere deep inside of herself; like ice or glass that starts to fracture. Turning her hand in his she wove her fingers into his grasp. "Thank you for that," she said definitively. She found their hands a steadying place to rest her gaze. "I shan't soon forget it."

They let the train's rhythmic swaying, the sounds of metal and wood groaning and knocking, and the soft keening of the wheels on the rails fill the silence for a time. They both held on tightly to the other's hand and the steam engine chugged up the curving grade.

When she could look at him again, she smiled broadly, "You never told me about the Duke's books. If I may ask?"

He gave her hand a squeeze, before letting go of it to pull the twine and unfold the brown paper. "They're mine. But you were right to think they were the _Earl's_. I didn't make the trip down for them. His Lordship needed a few new pairs of cuff links. The bookstore was simply a pleasant addition to the journey."

She bit back her smirk. His attention was focused upon the book, so she let her gaze linger on his profile. She knew Lord Grantham's proper title full well. The patience and pointedness with which Mr. Bates said "_the Earl" _simply tickled her beyond measure. To the slightly wicked degree that she made a point of only ever referring to his employer as "the Duke" in Mr. Bates' presence. It delighted and distracted her from herself that Mr. Bates had in fact not disappointed on this particular occasion. She chided herself again. She was supposed to be pushing him away and instead she was forgetting herself and getting caught up in his unassuming sweetness. She could feel herself justifying how it would hurt nothing to simply be a friend to him, to let him continue to be a friend to her. Then he turned to her and caught her looking at him and her breath went ragged in her throat. He smiled gently and ducked his head towards his lap.

Annie cooed, completely distracted and unable to contain her delight. Two of the newest books she had ever seen this side of a store window were spread out on the crisp brown paper. "You are indeed a wise man Mr. Bates," she enthused. "A book is always money well spent. I've heard of Twain, but not read him. I don't know of Frederick Douglass, though."

"He is a freed slave; this is his memoir. I imagine it will be difficult to read at times. I don't relish the prospect of learning of the atrocities committed against him, but some stories need to be told regardless of how hard they are to hear or read. Hence The Prince and the Pauper. The levity of that should prove a needed contrast. I find that I am very much enjoying the American literary perspective; it is quite a refreshing change. Do you read, Miss Lark?"

She straightened a bit in her seat and smiled. "And write. And I balance the ledgers for Vi. My father was a teacher. He felt it was important. An education. Despite my being a girl. I read all the time when I was young. Now I read whatever newspapers I find left in the barroom or the girls' rooms and teach whomever of the girls as wants to learn."

He smiled. "Your father sounds like a wise man."

"He was, in some ways." She nodded. "In others..."

"Didn't know when he'd had enough oysters and cider?"

She tried to keep her smile cheerful and not wistful. "Amongst other things."

"Do you have many books?" he asked.

"No. Four. Well, five counting the Bible. But that one isn't properly mine. It sort of floats about the house. Some of the girls like to hear passages on Sundays. "

"You read to them?"

She nodded, her hackles raising instinctively. "They've as much a right to the word of The Lord as anyone." She sounded defensive and prickly to her own ears.

"Yes. Of course. It's good they have you to read it to them." His tone stayed warm and gentle, his eyes kind, and she blushed.

"I'm sorry. Not everyone is quite so understanding, Mr. Bates," she murmured, embarrassed by her reaction. "There are those who believe we have no business attending services or reading the Bible."

"I can imagine," he gave her another one of those soft-eyed looks then settled back into his seat. She watched him run his fingers over the cover of the novel and wondered what it would be like to listen to him read. Stopping herself immediately, she shuddered at the flood of feelings that poured out of that thought. She was doing a miserable job pushing him away.

"Miss Lark?"

She fixed her smile and glanced at him expectantly.

"I have acquired a bit of a collection of books just in the time I have been in America. If you wish, you would be most welcome to borrow them from time to time."

Her head snapped up and her eyes went wide. It took her a moment to find her breath and her words. When she did, they all came at once. "Do you mean it? Truly? You wouldn't mind? I'd take ever such good care of any that you leant me."

He chuckled and grinned broadly. "I know you would. I would delight in having a reading partner to discuss them with."

There was nothing she could do to still the smile that erupted across her face. She giggled and rolled her eyes at him. "I very much doubt I will have anything meaningful to add to a book discussion."

"I beg to differ. Something tells me that your perspective will be rather refreshing and intelligent."

He picked up and offered her the more light hearted of the two volumes. The Prince and the Pauper. She cocked her head, eyes going wider yet, and frowned, looking from the volume to him and back. It was so beautiful; so crisp and unmarred. "But it's your new book. You haven't read it yet, yourself."

He smiled broadly for a moment, "I'll read this one and by the time I've finished, you will have returned the Twain to me."

She wiped her hands on her skirt before she took it from him and ran her fingertips over the gilding on the cover. There was a glowing warmth in her chest that bloomed and swelled. She fumbled for words. Could only hold it reverently and manage a tight, roughly whispered, "Thank you."

"Sharing your insights on and opinions of it with me will be thanks enough." He didn't smile enough. She loved his smile. Then a thought hit her. "Oh, but might I take the paper too? I would hate to smudge your new book before you had a go at it."

"Of course, here," he said, handing it to her. He flashed his teeth again; his smile was so broad. "You needn't worry, though. A well worn book is a beautiful thing, it just shows how many times it's been read and how well it's been cherished." Then his expression changed and he cocked his head. "I'd like to do something for you, if you'll let me."

She looked at him guardedly. Felt a sudden knot in her stomach. Knew some ridiculously sweet gesture was going to be made and steadied herself for it. He was making this so very hard. She was far too weak when it came to him; had grown far too fond. She never should have agreed to ride the train back.

He took his gloves off one by one, tugging the fingertips. He pulled a little leather kit from his pocket, unfastened the ties and unrolled it. It was a wee sewing kit. She smiled, it was such an incongruous thing to see in his large and graceful hands. He held one of those long-fingered hands out to her; a silent request for her own. She frowned but offered her hand anyway. Then he produced a small spool of blue thread, held it to her sleeve, and grinned. "Perfect. I just needed to see if I matched it well."

And she knew what he was going to offer. It drew up such a sudden and peculiar combination of surging emotions from her, not the least of which being shame, that she didn't know where to look or what to say. She felt sick to her stomach. Her skin burned and was likely a deeply vibrant shade of red. She pulled her arm sharply away from him. Wished desperately to disappear; that she had decided to go looking for Lit, that she was anywhere but with this unendingly sweet man.

"Oh, no, Miss Lark! Annie, please, I intended no insult. I apologize. I merely noticed ... I thought ..." His brow knit and his hand covered hers where it rested on her leg. "I'm so sorry. It's just that I'm quite good at mending these sorts of things. Tricks of the trade and all, being a valet. The Earl is forever putting holes in his finest attire."

Her eyes glanced off of him and she held the paper wrapped book tightly to her chest. She swallowed hard, felt tears burn hot behind her eyes. She fought to blink them away before they began.

"If you would allow me to try, I'll show you." He touched a poorly mended split. She felt his warmth through the fabric."When I'm done you won't see the rips if you don't know to look for them."

Despite it being one of the dearest things he could offer, she was mute from the shame of it all.

"If you like, I can teach you? You can watch me mend this now." He ran his finger over the seam of her right cuff. "Then when you aren't wearing it ... I mean ... when you are wearing something else." He stumbled over his words and the accidental innuendo in the most disarming of ways. His color rose yet again and she instantly found herself far more concerned about his discomfort. It was that easy to forget her own when it came to him. He covered his mouth with his open hand and rubbed his chin and jaw nervously. "When ... When it isn't in use and you are not indisposed, we could work on it together."

She looked skeptical, but his unease and his shift in tack managed to thaw her back to motion and speech. She couldn't accept his charity, but she could accept a new skill. "How does one mend on a moving train?" she finally asked.

"You'd be surprised." He chuckled. His eyes were warm, relieved, the lines that fanned out from their corners deepened with his smile. A smile that was so hopeful she couldn't help but return it.

"Here." He nodded. "Give me your arm."

Annie relaxed a bit and uncurled it into his waiting hands. He turned his knees towards her and shuffled a touch closer, so that her arm rested comfortably on the warm solidity of his thigh. He settled her hand palm up and touched the button of her cuff; silently seeking out her permission. He waited until she nodded to unfasten it and then folded the sleeve up her arm, turning the seam of the cuff inside out, before he set to work. She watched him closely, hoping that she might be able to learn the skill just through observation and avoid further entanglements. The book was bad enough. She should have refused the book, should have refused this. The closer she watched him, the more she knew she would need his guidance to repeat the task on her own. She felt more than a little sick.

He took care to hold her or move her arm, she noticed, only by her hand or where it was covered by her sleeve. He avoided touching her exposed forearm as much as he could. She rolled her eyes at him when he wasn't looking. Ever the gentleman. Bent studiously over her arm, he lay stitch after tiny stitch as the train swayed on the tracks. He furrowed his brow and pressed his lips together in concentration. Occasionally the pink tip of his tongue would part them while he focused. It made her want to touch his face. Made her want to tilt his chin toward her and kiss him. She hadn't wanted to kiss anyone in so long she couldn't remember the last time and she clenched her teeth. These were dangerous thoughts. Thoughts best tamped down and ignored. Even if doing so gave her a headache and made the back of her throat burn and tighten. He spent the rest of the lolling trip ripping out her clumsy stitches and replacing them with small neat nearly invisible ones of his own; he held remarkably steady in the moving car.

He was right; when he had finished and buttoned her sleeve, it looked nearly new. She couldn't see the seam unless she looked for it. Other tears would prove more difficult to mend and she relished the prospect of learning how to correct them even as she tried to work out what to say to him. And then the train hissed its blow down; at the head of the line of cars a great plume of steam blow off the left side of the engine. She needed to find some way to establish boundaries and fences, if they were to be friends. As if they could be friends. It was bad enough they were seen talking together. The whistle blasted loudly again as they rolled to a noisy stop in the Felton depot. The two jacks shuffled promptly from the car, eager to get wherever they needed to be.

He helped her out of her seat. Of course he would. He also held the door of the car for her, while she juggled her driftwood and the book. She took his hand in hers and stood close to him for a moment, loathe to descend the steps of the train and let the reality of her life pick back up Besides, she had to say something to him. Had to dissuade him somehow.

"Might I walk you back to The Garden, Miss Lark?"

She scowled at him for the interruption and the foolish request. "It wouldn't do for your employer to hear you were walking through the middle of town with a prostitute on your arm."

"I would be walking with a friend on my arm." He smirked. "A friend and her branch."

She couldn't suppress her delight at his insistence, didn't try, but she also couldn't let him win this time. "You'd be walking with a friend, yes," she said. Then she softened her voice and looked him square in the eye. "A friend who is a known whore."

His cheer evaporated. "That's an ugly word."

She sighed and smiled sadly up at him, not exactly pleased to have finally made an impression, but satisfied that she had inserted some reality between them. "It may be, but it's the truth, Mr. Bates. It's what I am. Besides, don't you have the Duke's horse? I assumed you would have him at the stables here for your ride back."

He nodded, still frowning. "I do at that."

She regarded him, kept smiling and rolled her eyes, "Go claim you Duke's horse, you can't keep him waiting. It's s a small town, Mr. Bates, I'll see you soon enough."

And then she tightened her grip on the driftwood and the paper-wrapped book and beamed, "I'll be needing to get your book back to you."

He chuckled, his frown smoothed away. "Keep it as long as you like. Thank you for your company today."

"Thank you, Mr. Bates. As I said earlier, you are too kind to me," she said.

"I don't know if you go to Santa Cruz on the train often, but I was thinking I might explore the area a bit more next Sunday morning. It seems a pleasant, quiet time for it."

She looked at him incredulously. Shook her head. "Go get that fancy egyptian horse, Mr. Bates. Thank you, again." She forced herself to turn away from him and descended the steep wooden steps with care and attention.

"Perhaps I shall see you then?" He asked after her.

She didn't glance back. A small victory. "Good afternoon, Mr. Bates."

She walked as directly back to The Garden as she could. She skirted the building and walked out back to deposit her driftwood onto the to stop and hold herself in and take deep, calming breaths for a bit when she was out of sight of everyone. If anything she was worse off now, because she was possessed of a borrowed book that she would need to return. The reminder made her heart pound rapidly. She had a new book to read. The finest and most beautiful book she had ever held. She hugged it to her chest and hitched the driftwood and continued to linger behind the whorehouse listening for signs of disgruntled life within. It was shockingly calm inside. She was a bit surprised that Vi's voice couldn't be heard.

She passed through the rear doors and poked her head into the kitchen, nodding her greeting at Dawn. "She not up yet?" she asked.

Dawn threw her flour coated hands up. "You know how she is. Heard her stirring a while ago and sent Daphne up to see what she wanted and she threw a shoe at the girl."

Annie frowned. "Sorry Dawn. I'll talk to her about it. And I'll talk to Daphne about it, too. Girl is too sweet for her own good."

"Sounds like a little bird I know," Dawn grinned and pushed her over a plate of scrambled eggs. She spooned cold day old chard, seasoned with vinegar onto Annie's plate as well.

"Thank you, love. After I eat, I'll take her up some tea and toast. She's like to be hung over something fierce." She wasted no time tucking in. "Do we have any rose hips left? Miss Minnie said they are good for tea when you overtax yourself or are getting sick, I'd say drinking like a fish until three in the goddamned morning counts as both of those."

"Get yer ass in here and warm mine," Vi grumped when she pushed in, belly pleasantly full, carrying the tray. Vi was always cold in the morning.

She smiled at Vi, unpinned her good hat, and clambered into the bed with her. She curled around her sour smelling body and settled against her softness.

"It's about blooming time you woke your sorry self up," she grinned, tickling Vi's side.

"Christ keep your fucking hands to yourself, they're like ice!"

Annie giggled and spread a hand flat on Vi's belly and the woman squawked and cursed and elbowed her. Annie didn't care; it had been a lovely morning. Despite her failure to do any real dissuading.

"Brought you some tea with honey and some toast with Miss Minnie's blackberry preserves," she chirped purposefully loud and with exaggerated cheer. When Vi swiped at her again, clumsy with sleep, she smirked. "Daph will bring up the coffee in a few minutes when it's fresh. You need to stop bullying her. She's a good girl, even if she is a bit lost with the jacks." Annie found that she had entirely stopped calling them johns. Even in her thoughts. She hated that his name was John. But it couldn't have been any other name.

"I'll stop bullying her when she finds her damn wits and learns to stop tripping on herself."

"I'm fairly sure throwing things at her won't cure her of that." She burrowed into the bed and spooned against Vi as the older woman grumbled, gathered her wits and her consciousness, and slowly wove the two about herself. Annie wasn't sure if she was Vi's favorite, or if the woman just gave her more leeway because she was bone tired of balancing the figures. She was fairly sure that Vi loved her, in her cantankerous, foul mouthed, burnt out way. It was a strange business, knowing she belonged to Vi, was in effect, Vi's property, and finding that as much as she wanted to be free of this life, she also loved the fat old cow, for all her faults and bitter messes.

She tightened herself against Vi's back. She could sink into it all and stew or she could sort of float over the top of it all. And being bitter and angry wasn't what she wanted. Even though she was so bitter and so angry sometimes that she could taste it it in her throat. She closed her eyes and sighed. Did her best to float. The breeze that blew in through the open window was cool and carried the sun warmed scent of redwoods with it. She lay quietly her eyes closed, not quite dozing when Vi finally rose for the day and started clattering about the tea tray and coughing and clearing her throat. There was a book hiding at the very back and bottom of the wardrobe she shared with Fern. Crisp and new and untouched. She sighed and fell into a half sleep in the afternoon light.


	4. Bridge

_Wednesday, 10 May 1882_

_She did not meet me on Sunday, as I had allowed myself to imagine she might. I waited for her until the stationmaster called us aboard. I decided to go anyway, hoping perhaps she had taken an earlier train to preserve her notion of my honor. Seeking out the oyster-monger, I bought and ate a handful of oysters from his cheerful wife and lingered there for a bit. When it became clear I would not see her, I walked along the line of stalls and curios. The sound of the gulls and the waves over the din of people was comforting, as was the salt air. I had planned on visiting a ladies boutique, a shop that sold hats and gloves. Instead I found an older woman who was making and selling leather goods. She had been perched on a stack of wooden crates, intently boring needle holes in a leather strip. I have always enjoyed observing craftspeople engrossed in their work and so I watched her. Then she looked at me with eyes like the night sky, deep black and unending. Her smile held more spaces than teeth. Her cheekbones were round and strong, and the skin stretched over them was wrinkle and weathered; the rich color of carmelized sugar. She was perhaps one of the most beautiful souls I have ever seen. I remember thinking that, and how soft and sentimental I have gone._

_She spoke no english and I, no spanish. We had an extended and animated exchange of gestures, smiles, and grimaces in which I described my needs and she showed me her wares. It was easy enough to get to gloves, but to find a size and style that were appropriate was a bit more challenging. In the end I chose a sensible pair. They are pliant and strong, soft as butter and the color of sand. They should serve Annie well on her trips into town. I hope I have purchased an appropriate size. They seem so very small, but then, so are her hands. I do not like to think of her out without gloves to warm those hands; they were so very cold when they were in mine._

_I fear that she will not accept them, for she is as proud as I._

_I brought a book with me as well. I assumed she would at the very least be amenable to the loan of another book. After all, it was not a gift. Nothing had prepared me for the way she shone when I handed her that Mark Twain novel. As of late it seems that her smiles are the source of most of my joy. The ones I have caused are all the more precious._

_I hope I did not push too far to see those smiles during our train-ride up from Santa Cruz last week. In my mind's eye, I can picture the ways she regarded me. I felt her gaze then most viscerally and I am ashamed of how it affects me even now, especially now in the solitude of this cabin where there is so little to distract my thoughts. I dared not delude myself that she could look on me with the same depths of desire and affection that I feel for her. But the way her gaze lingered on me when she thought I was paying no mind, the way she holds me at arms' length; I am beginning to suspect (though I am afraid to hope) that her behavior is not entirely because of her concern for me and my reputation._

_It's odd. But the more I think of Annie Lark, the more I long to hear the cadence of my mother's voice. I feel foolish for committing these words to paper, for the one does not at all remind me of the other. Except perhaps in their stubbornness and determination. And the patient way they each have of regarding me when I have said something foolish._

_Tonight she opened her throat like her feathered namesake and sang. She is so very lovely, my sweet little lark._

His pen had scratched over the paper and it helped a little. He wasn't quite used to this fountain pen. Nights like this he missed the dipping and tapping; the bursts of rich, saturated letters followed by brittle dry scratch marks. The need to stop and catch another droplet of ink in the nib and retrace the pen's path. Not every modernization was necessarily a complete improvement. It nearly comforted him. The slivers under his fingernails smarted. His ankle hurt. It always hurt, but it hurt more lately. He felt old. More so when he remembered how his desire grew as he watched her. She had been shining in the lamplight, painfully beautiful, and as always just out of his reach.

The week was dragging slowly past. Since their morning together, nearly two weeks prior, Annie Lark seemed to be making herself decidedly scarce during the times that he was usually passing through town. He satisfied himself with the sound of her laughter floating out into the darkness as he passed by The Garden. He could pick her voice out of the din easily. Riding along, earlier that night he had wondered at how quiet The Garden seemed until her sweet soprano rang out through the cool air. He reined in Pharoah and eased the dappled grey gelding over so that he could watch from the street. It was a ballad, an old song that he recognized from his childhood. It told a story about a clever cabin boy who was nearly betrayed and drowned by his own captain. His aunt used to sing it for him. He couldn't think of the title, at first. Then recalled that it was the ship's name. The Sweet Kumadee. He'd forgotten how pleased the twist at the end had made him when he was a young. The cabin boy outsmarted the captain and claimed his reward; the captain's daughter, amongst other things. It wasn't a sad song, but she was stood solemn on the bar, her hands at her sides, her eyes closed, sounding mournful. Most everyone in The Garden had their heads bowed; some had removed their hats.

Gossip had gone the rounds about a rail worker who had been crushed that day when a load of railroad ties toppled onto him. John held off his own hat to his chest out of respect.

When she was done, he heard Vi call out, "He loved that damn song! Half-price shots for the next fifteen minutes in honor of good old Half-Assed Sam!"

A cheer erupted and business returned to normal. With the help of the two nearest patrons, Annie hopped off of the bar and disappeared into the crowd. He waited for a moment, willing her to come outside for air, knowing all the while that she wouldn't.

The song followed him and Pharoah up the mountain. He was still singing it softly to himself even after he wrote in his journal, after he wrote to his mother, when he settled down on his modest bed. The bed was far too short for his comfort, yet he had not gotten around to making a new frame. The simple rope and wood construction was not beyond his limited skills, but he only ever thought of it when he was lying down trying to rest.

Sleep would not come that night. Even after two shots too many. He had been using less and less laudanum and was at the bottom limit of his tolerance. Any less and he shook and sweated and felt sick. It meant he was drinking a bit more whiskey, but he was trying to limit that, too. His elixir at the moment, the only thing that pulled him out of his aches and frustrations enough to relax into the arms of sleep were thoughts of her. Tonight it was the memory of the lamplight shadowing her collar bone, the sweet purity of her singing and the swell of her breasts when she inhaled sharply at the interval between verses.

Thursday morning came early and with it the not so distant sounds of dynamite and shattering rock. Closer by he could hear men shouting and arguing and the woodpecker sounds of the jacks that worked at the split stuff installation that fed the cooperage and kilns. He had written to his mother about how close he was to the piles of split stuff; that the axes splitting kiln kindling and boards for barrels tended to lull him to sleep at night and wake him in the mornings. He couldn't readily tell her what really lulled him to sleep.

The nights were still chilly and the early morning air tended to be damp and cold. He groaned when he sat up. His head pounded and his entire right leg ached; the way he walked to favor his ankle was wrecking havoc with his knee and hip. He stretched and quickly built a fire in his small stone fireplace; pushed water over it for tea. While the tea water was boiling he went out and round to the small enclosed stall he had built against the side of the cabin. It was just enough protection from the elements, with just enough room for one of the horses. He tried to ride them equally, but found he favored Pharoah. Isis was young and both over-zealous and over-sensitive. She needed a slightly more patient hand than he gave her. He would leave Pharoah in the cool dark of the hotel's stable tonight and ride Isis up to his cabin. He freshened his and Pharoah's water buckets from the creek twenty paces away, and went in to take the kettle off the fire. He poured a bit of water into his small ceramic tea pot. He had purchased it and a tiny cup without a handle from a shop in Santa Cruz's chinatown. It was very inexpensive, only thirty cents, and served his meager needs. He liked the grain of the cup and the dark glaze. He also liked the tea he bought there. Oolong. Richly flavored. Strong.

He brought the kettle out to Pharoah and poured a bit of hot water over the horse's morning grains to make a mash. He gave him some hay from the pile next to the stall and limped back inside to wash and enjoy his tea.

He was coordinating falls the next morning, so today he was set to ride around to the sites and plot out the direction the tree needed to be felled. It was best for the behemoths to fall uphill and onto a stand of smaller trees so as to not shatter their massive trunks under their own weight and momentum. He enjoyed days like this, strategizing and admiring the landscape, it was a very pleasant part of the job, and relatively painless. Coop had decided he was perfectly capable of doing it himself and left him to it.

It had struck him on more than one occasion how the mountains were being stripped of the trees that made them unique in the world. The very stone itself was cooked and carted away. He wondered what would happen when they came to the end of the supply of trees. Wondered how long they could keep blowing up the mountainside for the lime works.

At half past ten, when he was satisfied that he had calculated out the angles and trajectories of the trees in question, he reined the gelding down the mountainside to tend the Earl. In the stately quiet of Downton the man was an early riser, but with carousing happening until the wee hours of the morning, he tended to sleep until well into the day.

Mr. Bates guided the horse along Fall Creek and happened upon Miss Minnie. She was trudging downhill next to a ancient looking horse that pulled her equally ancient looking though brightly painted cart. She looked him over and grinned. He touched his hat and bade her a good day.

"You are the Duke's man; Mr. Bates?" she asked. It was a statement more than a question, though.

"Yes, the Earl is my employer."

"I have something for you." Miss Minnie didn't stop walking but wiped her hands on her apron and pulled a pale-blue glass jar with a cork stopper from her apron pocket. She raised it up to him and he leaned over slightly to accept it.

"I think you must be mistaken. I haven't placed an order or purchased anything. Did the Earl…?"

"Oh, it's from Annie. She was telling me that your limp has been getting a touch worse lately and thought you might benefit from some of my arnica rub."

He furrowed his brow. "She hadn't mentioned it. How much do I owe you?"

"Annie took care of that end of things." She smiled, then raised her eyebrows. "You'll want to massage it into the ankle, knee, and hip in the morning and before going to bed. Anywhere else you have pains. Personally I like to wrap it with a warm rag after I use it on my elbow and wrists. Helps with arthritis too."

John's frown deepened. "Thank you, but…"

"If your ankle or leg is troubling you," Miss Minnie interrupted. "Come by my place sometime and let me give you a proper once over. I may be able to help a bit."

He began to stutter in embarrassment, which she ignored.

"Does no good to anyone to be stubborn and proud around such things." She lowered her voice. "That damn town doctor will only look at you if you can pay and will likely just feed you laudanum. And it'll do Annie good knowing you're being tended to; she's been fretting over it. She is fond of you, you know."

The way she said it brooked no misinterpretation. He held her gaze and nodded. "I am fond of her," he responded truthfully and without hesitation.

"She is a good girl, our Annie. She needs to have someone looking out for her in this world."

The so-called witch-woman's words made his neck and cheeks burn. They made him deliriously happy. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the tissue and brown paper wrapped gloves. (He had known that a box would have been too much. Instead he had stopped at the mercantile and bought a length of blue ribbon. An extra nickel convinced the shop girl to bundle the gloves in a paper parcel and bind it all with the ribbon. The blue looked fine against the crisp brown paper. He hoped she could use the ribbon in her hair or on her hat.)

"Might I ask a similar favor? And I am happy to pay you for your time. You see, I am afraid Annie will not accept this. It is a small token of my … my fondness and appreciation; a pair of gloves. I've noticed she doesn't have any. Would you perhaps convince her to take them?"

He held the small parcel out to the dark haired woman. Miss Minnie had shockingly pale blue eyes, made all the more pale by her dark lashes, but she regarded him warmly, searching his face for something before nodding to herself, seemingly satisfied with what she found there. She took the wrapped gloves and chuckled. "You may not have known her long, Mr. Bates, but you know Annie well, indeed. I will tell her that the only way you would accept the salve was if I made sure she accepted the gloves. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

He smiled broadly. "Yes. Perfectly agreeable. Thank you. What can I pay you for doing so?"

"I'll tell you what: I'm at my property all day Mondays and Wednesdays and mornings all week. You give me your word that you'll come by and let me look at your leg and we will call it even."

He furrowed his brow. "How is that payment?"

She grinned, showing off surprisingly straight, white teeth. "I didn't say I wouldn't charge you for the examination and services rendered. Besides, it will make Annie happy knowing that your limp is being looked after. That'll help me convince her to take the gloves."

He didn't know what to think. Beyond the fact that he was growing fonder of Miss Minnie by the minute. He held his hand out and shook hers firmly. "You have yourself a deal, ma'am."

"Oh please, Minn or Minnie is just fine. Mrs. Ballard if you must be proper, but I am definitly no ma'am."

He chuckled, and nodded. "Well, regardless, I give you my thanks, Mrs. Ballard."

His body fairly hummed with hope as he rode Pharoah on to the Central Hotel.

* * *

Annie Lark lived on egg shells, was accustomed to watching her words, her expressions, and the stories that the set and stance of her body told. She rarely let anything rattle her; was able to maintain her focus and the care with which she placed her feet, literally and figuratively. Not so since their train ride together. Memories of the brutality visited so senselessly on poor Eunice didn't help. She was clumsy and startling easier than usual. The only time she seemed to settle into herself were when she was immersed in her garden, working the floor, or reading. When Vi questioned her about the books previous owner, she nipped back, "Do you want to hear it or not?"

That settled the matter, because Vi enjoyed Annie's reading as much as any of her whores. Even the reading evoked strange feelings. The book, _The Prince and The Pauper, _was good but hit a bit too close to home. She wasn't sure which boy made her more uneasy, the prince trapped in the pauper's life or the pauper trapped in the prince's.

She felt decidedly guilty. For she had not agreed to ride down with him again this last Sunday. But she also had not said she wouldn't. She had watched him from the trees to the west of the depot, hoping he would realize she was not coming, and give up his wait. When the station master called them to board, he frowned and looked around once again. He shoulders slumped a bit when he finally relinquished his spot and walked unevenly to the nearest car. She hated herself for being cruel to him. She wanted nothing more than to rush into the train car and join him. It would be so simple to rush in, and sit and chat and laugh with him. They got on so very well. She wanted to ask him about his life. To hear stories of his mother, of his youth. She wanted to know how he came to be employed by Lord Grantham. She wanted so very much. It wasn't right though, to allow him to hope, or worse yet, to give in and saddle him with the mistakes and missteps of her life. He was too good a man for that. She had walked away from the depot feeling defeated and selfish.

Stumbling through her week, she was so distracted she didn't even realize Thursday had rolled around. At least, not until Heinrich Kant, the elected fire marshal clomped through the doors of The Garden in his freshly shined boots. It was no challenge to slip into a shadowed corner and disappear. She settled into a chair near Salmon Joe, who opened his mouth with a sloppy, soused-looking smile. He snapped it audibly shut again at the pointed glare she shot at him. The other few patrons in the place were quiet and solitary. It was the unspoken rule.

Thursdays at 4:00pm you made scarce and pretended not to notice that Vi was wearing her best dress. You certainly pretended that her hair was no more full, gleaming, or freshly braided and pinned than usual She wore rouge and eye black, but only the slightest amounts, enough to liven her face, but not anywhere near the garish amount the girls painted on for nights in the lamplight.

Heinrich went by Hank or Henry, but most of the more unmannered of the town and surrounding industry referred to him as Herr Cunt. The fullness of his walrus mustache and the way the center of his upper lip peeked out of it only encouraged the moniker. He wasn't an unkind man, he just took his job seriously. Which didn't make him many friends. And his wife, Verdeline Kant, was a piece of work the likes of which Annie had never encountered. She was much younger than he, which was to say her late thirties to his mid to late fifties. She was a very vocal member of the local temperance league, and a bit of a zealot besides. She was decidedly vocal in her opinion of the local prostitutes, saloons, and dance halls. This did not help to earn him supporters amongst the lower born in the camp. Not that it really mattered, he likely won the election based on the votes of her proper church going acquaintances alone. He was true to her though, despite his affection for Vi, which, based on his tone alone was considerable.

Annie was curious about the story of the Kants' union, for they always seemed ... not indifferent to one another exactly, but decidedly unaffectionate. She didn't know either of them, not really, but she was curious. The Heinrich Kant she saw walk stiffly arm in arm with his wife was very different from the Fire Marshall Kant she knew from his visits to The Garden .

He always walked up to the bar, took his hat off, ran his boney fingers through his hair and set his hat on the stool next to the one on which he sat. This Thursday was no different. He placed a coin on the gleaming wooden surface that separated them, as was part of the ritual.

When Vi spoke, it was in a register she reserved for him. She took out two shot glasses and filled first one, then the other.

"You know I don't want your money," she said with un-characteristic softness.

"Take it anyways," he rasped. Annie had always liked his voice. It was gravel-rough voice, though laced through with honey when he was in The Garden. "Business good?"

"Lifting spirits is always good business. Selling them doesn't hurt either."

"No trouble then?" he asked. His tone was warm. Like the tone Mr. Bates took when he spoke to her when the were alone.

Vi laughed, dark velvet and throaty. Annie smiled to herself. Vi's laughs were as varied as the woman herself and all of them memorable.

"None as I can't sweet talk or apply a well aimed knee towards convincing to settle the hell down." She clinked her glass against hers and tipped her head back.

He chuckled. Stretched his drink out into three small draughts. Looked around the room, to the cast iron stove that warmed a corner during the colder months, and the fireplace that adorned the wall opposite the entrance. It was the only time they spent together, this weekly inspection visit, and he never neglected his duties. He pushed away from the bar and walked round and checked the lamps. Then she and Séam led him around the upstairs, through the whores' rooms and her office which was also her bedroom.

She never took him on his rounds unaccompanied. Not once. Annie hadn't thought on it much, but she realized with a start, that it was Vi's way of protecting him. Annie supposed that she could have Kant and Séamus inspect the upstairs alone, but her boss didn't seem to be able to let the lanky official out of arms' reach while he was in her realm.

When they were out of sight Salmon Joe tried his luck again. Annie stood and eyed him. "Rosie and Myrtle are working right now, but they are occupied. You can wait until they are finished, until I start working the floor in a couple of hours, or I can go get Blossie or Daphne for you now. Either way you know the rule, you'll need to visit the bath house; I can smell you from here." He pulled a face but stood and ambled off; presumably towards the bath house. There were times when she stomped around not caring if she crushed a few eggshells.

Fern appeared from her hiding place in the kitchen, looked around, and sat behind the bar. She threw a questioning look in Annie's direction.

"You know the routine, they'll be back down in a few. I'm making myself scarce so I don't get an earful for not making myself scarce sooner. Going up to Miss Minnie's for a bit. Need anything from her?"

"No but Dawn was just bitching that she is low on garlic and that herbed salt rub."

Annie grinned. "Can't have Dawnie unhappy. Sounds like I have a shopping list then, because we need more tea fixings, we're out of chamomile and rose hips and that soothing balm. Myrt used the last of it. See you in a few hours, love."

* * *

Minnerva Jane Ballard unhitched and wiped down the old nag inside the age silvered redwood barn. She had been young when her uncle and father had built it, still too small to help with much besides running about to find nails that had been dropped. That was long ago, before the War Between the States. Now her uncle was dead and her father was an old man, busy tending to other parts of the family in other parts of the country, leaving her to care for the property as she pleased, which suited her just fine. She swatted the horse hard when she nipped at her. "Quit it you; I know! You'll get your feed when you get it. Give me your other goddamned hoof and just stop." She squawked and elbowed the animal sharply when it found the fleshy part of her hip while she bent to cleaning it's frog. "I'm not like to improve your digestion, you ungrateful shit!"

When the cantankerous old mare was muzzle deep in her feedbag, Minn scratched her neck and slapped her rump and closed up the barn. She hadn't seen an adult grizzly in years, but there was no need to temp fate.

She scrubbed the back of her hand across her forehead and sighed. She was having a hard time shaking the lingering feeling of melancholy that she had had since Eunice's brutal death. (It was still strange thinking of her as Eunice and not Petunia.) Really, she had been murdered. She was sick to begin with, but after the beating she took, Minnerva was surprised the woman had lingered as long as she had. Teeth had been knocked from her mouth, her belly was distended and black from internal bleeding. Her ribs were broken; she could barely breath. It had taken her far to long to die. Minnerva closed her eyes against images that came anyway.

She had lived in these mountains for years. She had been visiting with her father when he and her uncle built the main house and barn. She moved to the property when her uncle died. Her father bade her see to the it shortly after she left Boston and the medical hospital. Her thoughts lingered on another broken, battered body. It hadn't been long after she helped Iana that she had had to leave Boston. She missed the dark skinned, freckled ex-slave. Missed her with an ache that never went away. It had been nearly twenty years, just after the end of the war. She could still see those strangely pale green-gold eyes when she closed her own. She prayed that the woman was still alive somewhere - strong and stubborn as she was, there was real possibility.

She was grateful that she didn't know who had done it to Petunia ... to Eunice, for she likely would have found him and done something terrible, and then where would she be? Not helping any more of the girls in the camps or the jacks either. And Lord knew the doc was of no real use to them.

There were some jacks and coopers and lime workers that she would be happy to never have to see or treat again, but she worried about her boys, the ones who came to her with injuries or illnesses and then kept returning for her cooking and company. The ones that came and did odd jobs in exchange for dinner or a new pair of socks. Some days she felt like she mothered the whole of the mountain. She heard the crunch of footfalls and looked up to see Annie striding up the road.

"Annie-belle!" she called, putting her hands on her hips, the paper wrapped gloves in her pocket painting a broad smile on her face. "Just the girl I was hoping to see. How are you, my sweetling?"

She opened her arms to the slight young woman when she was near enough, and pulled Annie into a fierce hug. Snugged the pale head under her chin and rubbed her narrow back with slightly arthritic knuckles. Annie held on to her tightly and for a long time.

"Why you here?" Minnerva smiled. "You piss off Vi?"

The pale haired girl laughed out loud. "You know me too well, Miss Minn." She smirked and rolled her eyes. "Probably. I didn't stay around to find out. I've been a bit distracted lately. Forgot it was Thursday."

Minnerva snorted. "Vi still getting visits from the fire marshal on a Thursday? Didn't realize she was still smitten with Herr Cunt."

"Miss Minnie! You shouldn't call him that! It's not his fault his last name is Kant."

"Well, when the shoe fits," Minnerva shrugged. "He makes it too easy what with that ridiculous soup strainer of his. And he is a pain in the ass, always nosing around. Last time he came up here I gave him hell; threatened to shoot him if he made himself a nuisance. He didn't appreciate that I wouldn't allow him to inspect my bedroom. Told him only man ever to be let in that room is my husband, which isn't likely, seeing as I ain't seen hide nor hair of him since I was seventeen."

"Henry Kant's not a bad man." Annie nudged Minnerva with her hip as they stood together. "He just takes his job seriously; he is looking out for all of us. And rightfully so. Remember how bad the fire was down at the Early's Trading Post? Three buildings burnt to the ground. We're lucky it wasn't worse. Lucky it was the rainy season and everything was wet."

"Yeah, yeah. That's what he said. And you know I don't really mind him marshaling around. It's just that the way he goes about it rubs me wrong. Beside, anyone as gonna fall for that boss of your's ain't got all their gears aligned and oiled properly. Lord knows what Vi sees in him boney as he is, beak nosed and mustachioed as all get out."

"No accounting for what a body wants, is there?" Annie smiled softly, her thoughts obviously not on Herr Cunt.

"Isn't that the damned truth?" Pale, gold-green eyes came to mind. She sighed. Felt older than the trees her jacks were felling. Those were eyes that she would likely never see again. "Come on - I need some coffee and food. There are leftover fried potatoes and onions from breakfast. You want some?"

"Wouldn't say no," Annie answered with a grin. Minnerva looped her arm in the younger woman's and walked with her towards the main house. It was silvered redwood like the barn, and unremarkable save for the massive old-growth stump that rose into the air behind it. The house was built around the stump, butted up against it for protection from the wind. Or at least that's what she told people. No one ever seemed to notice that the wind blew towards the front of the house not the rear.

She left Annie to build up the fire and warm the food while she disappeared into her bedroom and to wash and change. The dark blue calico with pink roses and green leaves scattered over it was her going to town dress: pretty, but a bit too fitted to be able to accomplish much while wearing it. The green calico, the one printed with little brown birds was stained and worn, but soft and loose enough to be comfortable mucking about the property. Annie's gift weighted the apron, and make a crinkling sound when she tied it back on. The food was plated and the coffee was just boiling in the pot when she emerged, feeling decidedly refreshed. Annie was more than accustomed to making herself both useful and at home on her visits, and Minn liked that about her.

"Now, my sweetling," Minnerva piped up when she and Annie had eaten their fill. "What can I get for you today?"

"Not much. Just some of that herbed salt rub that Dawn likes and some tea fixings, and garlic." Annie's eyes went distant as she mentally checked off her list. "Oh, and your soothing balm and a little bottle of that sweet almond oil. The one Vi likes for her hair."

"An easy enough request to fill. You want me to put it on Vi's tab?"

"Yeah, well, everything but the almond oil."

"You want me to take the cash out of your tin or you want to trade?" As if she would take any money out of that girl's savings. She had yet to ever "take money out of the tin," though from time to time Annie requested it. As it was, she had been sneaking cash into the tin whenever she could. Minnerva thought herself a sorry person to be the only one in Annie's life she felt she could trust. She had been saving for as long as she had been with Vi; as much as she could when she could. Minn had been the holder of her savings for nearly as long.

"Wait, why are you buying Vi's hair oil for her?"

"I'm not. It's for me. My hair's been so dry lately." Annie looked sheepish. "I'll take trade if you don't mind."

It sounded like half an answer to Minnerva, who suspected it had more than a little to do with a certain tall englishman.

"You know I don't mind, sweetling. I'd enjoy some company whilst I take down and fold the morning wash. Then we'll get you fixed up with supplies and have you back to The Garden in time to keep Vi from bursting a blood vessel."

She had a sweet giggle, her Annie-belle, especially when it was genuine.

"You are just as bad as she is," the younger woman chirped, smiling. "Only in different ways, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Minnerva winked at her and grinned broadly. "But when you get to be of an age you stop giving a shit. At least if you are me or Vi."

The laundry line was strung between a fence post and the massive twenty foot tall redwood stump against which the main house was built. Annie set to work immediately, folding the half a hundred rags that Minn went through on any given day. Together they worked their way down the clothesline, folding sheets in unspoken unison.

"How you been, my Annie-belle? You ain't seemed right since our poor little Petunia got taken." Calling the girl by her given name proved troublesome as Minnerva had only ever known her by her Garden name. (The girl had told them on her deathbed, not wanting it to be forgotten. Eunice Clara Brewer. The child of Elias and Clara Brewer, parents who died of influenza and were in an unmarked grave somewhere in Kansas had wanted her name, their name to be remembered. Annie had asked Minnerva for money from her savings to buy the girl a headstone, but Minn wouldn't hear of it. Besides, the stone mason Timothy Robertson, owed her a favor. He was agreeable enough to ensure that Eunice's grave was not unmarked. Minnerva had bade him carve the poor girl's parents' names on it too.)

A heavy sigh answered. "How am I supposed to be right after that? I hate knowing that whoever beat her is roaming the valley, free to do it to another of us whenever he wants. And Lit wasn't at the wharf Sunday before last when I went down; you know how I fret when I don't see him."

Minnerva smiled fondly. "Go down this Sunday. He will probably be back with a glorious story to tell you."

"I know, but it bothers me that his family is so far away. I mean I know Monterey isn't that far, but still. He has no one looking after him. I wonder if I shouldn't have gone to his rooming house to check on him."

"Sweetling, if you have thought about it in such detail it is obviously concerning you. Why don't you go pay him call? Take the early train down tomorrow; Petunia's ... Eunice's death is weight enough to be carrying with you."

"How are you faring?" Annie asked the question so gently, Minn could not mistake her meaning.

"If you tell anyone I said so, I'll profess you a liar, but I am poorly indeed. I've been patching up and tending folks for too long. Seen the cogs of this valley grind up so many girls and spit them out in a pulpy mess. Shit, it grinds up the jacks and spits them out too. And then I'm left to stitch together the bloody pieces." She inhaled deeply, and sighed, opening her eyes, to find herself fixed in Annie's empathetic gaze. And then she was reminded of the contents of her apron pocket and a sly smile slipped over her face. "I passed the arnica off to your Mr. Bates."

"He's not my Mr. Bates." Annie rolled her eyes. Minnerva could see the way she turned a rosy shade of pink. "Thank you for your help, though."

Minn snorted and raised an eyebrow at the younger woman. "He's your Mr. Bates," she stated in a tone that brooked no argument. She looked the girl in the eye and with a smirk continued. "And don't thank me yet. He had a condition upon accepting it; that I would ensure that you accepted this." She pulled the sweetly wrapped package from her apron pocket.

Annie's face fell so quickly it made Minn want to weep. The girl held her hands away from the beribboned parcel as though it would burn her. "I can't. Whatever it is, I can't. He's done too much for me already."

"And why is that such a terrible thing, my sweetling?"

Annie's brow furrowed. "There isn't any way for me to repay him in kind. The only way I do have he has made clear he doesn't want."

Minn smiled gently. "I doubt very much that he doesn't want it, honey-girl, just that he doesn't want it to be payment." She thrust the small package forward. "Here. Open it. See what it is. You know I'm not letting up on you until you do."

Annie scowled, but took the package from Minn's hands. She fingered the ribbon gently, her expression growing wistful. "I don't know why he has to insist on doing things like this."

Minnerva snorted at her but held her tongue, enjoying watching the fair haired woman slowly and gently pulling open the bow and unfolding the paper. Her brow creased as she uncovered a layer of pale blue tissue paper. The crease deepened when she found the gloves themselves. Her chin trembled and she blinked rapidly, pressing her lips into a thin line. She brushed a single fingertip over the pretty leather and shook her head.

Minnerva couldn't keep the maternal smile from her face. "You're keeping those, Annie Lark," she snapped. "And you're wearing them. Don't you look at me like that. You need gloves and you won't buy them for yourself. Sweetling, it is alright to accept kindness from people. Not everyone expects something in return. Not everyone is kind because they want something."

"But he does, and what he wants, I have no business giving him."

"That so? And what is that?"

Annie looked away.

"No, you tell me. What is it? What is it that he wants?" She smiled, knowing the answer full well, and let her voice turn gentle. "He's sweet on you. And honey-girl, I've known you for a long time and you are definitly sweet on him. More than sweet on him, I'd wager. I've never seen you act this way around any man. Or any woman, for that matter. And you know what? Sometimes the only repayment people need is for you to accept their damn kindnesses."

Annie opened her mouth to argue. Minnerva interrupted her. "No. You hush up, honey-girl. There's nothing wrong in the world with two people loving each other. Life's too short to fight with it, no matter what the rest of the world says. Take a lesson from an old woman; when you find someone you feel this strongly for and they feel the same, you sure as shit hold the hell onto that."

Annie sighed, but she carefully folded the tissue and wrapping paper and slipped them into the waist of her skirt. One by one she pulled on the gloves.

"He has a good eye, your Mr. Bates. Minnerva watched Annie open and close her gloved hands. "They look like they fit near perfect."

A slight smile tugged at Annie's lips. "They do."

**Thanks for reading. Reviews are my bread and butter. **


	5. Crayfish

**A/n: Thank you for all your kind words. I particularly appreciate reviews on this story, as it is very close to my heart. And yes, they will kiss soon. Maybe. **

**Extra love to Downtonluvr for keeping me fixed and satiated with DA.**

The blood pounded through Vi's head with painful familiarity. Every heartbeat made her feel squeezed in a vice. Her mouth was dry and Annie was curled around her; body like a stove, hands and feet like ice. The girl always tucked herself into the cracks and crevices of Vi's ample body, stealing warmth. If Annie was dozing when it was this late it was because she had gone out at dawn. "Water." Vi coughed and swatted at her, clumsy-like.

Annie mumbled something sleepily and shoved her back. Vi pulled herself up and grabbed at the glass that the girl always poured for her after she passed out. Annie yelped when water sloshed on her and squirmed out from under Vi's elbow. "Christ, Vi!"

"Shut your fucking mouth," Vi croaked. She swallowed a groan, drained the glass and held on to the edge of the mattress. "You do more than whisper, I'll slit your throat."

Annie snorted, doing nothing to regulate her volume. "I'd like to see you catch me, sorry state you're in. You gotta slow down Vi, we had to lock you in near every night this week."

She coughed and cleared her throat and focused her attention on Annie. Casting about for distraction, she turned to question the girl. "Where you been anyway? You ain't abed this time of day unless you been out testing your tether early. You go up to that old bat's place or down to Santa Cruz?"

"None of your goddamn business. I was off the bleeding clock."

The pain in her head was not lessening. She hated Friday mornings almost as much as she hated Sunday mornings, sometimes more. Little cunt had gotten far too big for her britches. Nothing would be happening now about it; she was far too muddled, still reeling a bit from the booze. No matter, she could bide her time and properly remind Annie of her place when she was more able. Her response to the current impertinence, when finally uttered, was laced with a bitterness that surprised even her.

"I own you," she hissed. "You ain't never off my clock till you buy yourself back from me, you uppity little bitch. And I ain't seen nothing from you but what I hold back for your monthly expenses. I'll say it again. Where you been?"

Annie glared at her in defiance, silently taking the words like a slap. She pushed off of the bed and slammed the door behind her so hard the wall shook.

Vi collapsed on the bed, cursing the intensity of her hangover. She thought to when she was Annie's age. She had been like ripe fruit; bright, lush, and bursting. Always a coy half smile. Always a scintillating word. Men flocked to her. Women hated her. Still did. Or so she told herself, though more and more her girls looked at her with less caution and respect and more with something that was beginning to resemble pity. All the whiskey in the world couldn't hide the contempt on that girl's face lately. She used to pride herself on her resolute fierceness. Her hardness. For she was not to be trusted and she in a way prided herself on it. She had always held her interests and the best interests of the Garden over all inside. When had she gone soft and fat and sentimental?

The noonday light was enough to keep her squinting. Her head felt like it had been stomped on. It hadn't always been like this. She used to looked at people out of the slitted corners of her eyes, find out the truth of them, and move in for the kill. She could read a room like a book and play a person's body like an instrument. She could steer a crowd away from the tipping point, and awaken sensations in a person that they themselves didn't know they could feel. She used to be so good at effortlessly sliding in and out of roles. She liked the power it gave her. She particularly relished the ability to drive a man mad with desire. Few things pleased her more than the utter, infantile, pulsing helplessness of a man just about to climax. Before and after that moment they were too brutish, too sentimental, too foolish, too rough, too weak, but for that moment, they were animalistic and held in her thrall and could be made to do or agree to almost anything. They were wholly and completely hers then. That was _her_ moment.

Only thing was that the one she wanted to be hers never would be. The thought sent her hand into the rumpled sheets and blankets of the bed, groping until about until she touched the dented metal of her flask. She shook it and was pleased with the weight and sloshing sensation that followed. Not much, a few swigs, but enough to get her upright and begin to ease the throbbing in her head. She groaned and stretched and eventually stood. She emptied her bladder into the chamber pot and pulled her corset closed, hooking the busk bit by bit. She shrugged into on a stained satin dressing gown. Deemed herself presentable enough for breakfast.

It had been her wits, her attention to detail, and the vastness of her memory that propelled her to the top of her trade. She had had an uncanny ability to sense what each man needed. To be pampered or slapped, revered or degraded, she could tease it out of them in minutes, give exactly what they didn't know they wanted. In her time with them, she was able to make each one feel like the center and sole focus of her attention, for at that moment, they were. Her memory had served her well over the years. Secrets don't like to be shared and many a man will pay prettily to keep his unknown.

She enjoyed it, parts of it, anyway. Playing the game. Pulling strings. Fucking, both powerful and not-so-powerful men. Planning out her moves across the board in conjunction with how others moved around her. She could never have gotten as far as she did if she didn't flavors of it.

In Annie she saw her younger self. Or a softer version of her younger self, anyway. She was reminded of how she used to be able to sniff out a man's difficulties and over the course of their hour together, settle the pieces of himself more firmly together; resolute in the direction he needed to go. It was a rare gift to be as finely tuned as all that. Annie had it too. Vi used to care. That was back when she still gave a shit. Back when she wasn't trying to forget all that she remembered.

She stopped giving a shit years ago.

Vi knew she was a woman who garnered strong reactions, for better or worse. It threw her a little when she didn't get a strong reaction. She had seen within a minute of meeting Heinrich Kant that he was not one for her usual line of horse-shit flattery. So she poured him a whiskey on the house and answered his questions about the number of rooms in the building and watched him poke around the main barroom. That first inspection, she had taken him around herself, gauging his mettle and reading his tells. She hid nothing, apologized for nothing, told him honestly what he wanted to know. Flirted shamelessly. He had paid no mind to the flirting and paid instead for the drink. No bribing or buying that man, not with money or temptations of the flesh.

It was a bit later when he came to her under his additional mantle of Sheriff's Deputy, back when he used to be the deputy too, all those years ago. That was when she supposed she had made an impression. She had stood her ground like a man would when his questioning became leading.

"You can't make me create something as didn't happen," she had barked at him. Stared him down, eye to eye, chin thrust defiantly forward, drawn up to her full height, which was only an inch or two shy of him. "He was new to town, as far as I know. I sold him more than his share of whiskey and only one token for pussy. If it was still on his person when you found the body, well, then, he must not have used it. That doesn't link his death to us, just his desire to get fucked. It wasn't one of my girls. Anyone come across a body could have taken what money he had. My girls are well set up. They don't need to turn to murder to line their pockets. They have snatch enough to take care of that."

She had watched for a reaction to her florid language. His eyes widened, nearly imperceptibly, his cheeks colored slightly and he held her gaze; he had her number as much as she had his and was controlling himself accordingly. She'd known then that he would be a challenge. He tipped his hat to her and paid her for his whiskey. He returned the following week for another. And that was how Thursdays became Thursdays.

Every now and then when he was still deputy, she had sent the girls to stand outside with their tits out, so that he might come in and tell her to stop. He never insinuated anything else, never spoke rudely to her, barely spoke to her at all. He hadn't been deputy for years. Not since he was shot. He survived. It had scared the shit out of her. Probably his cunt wife too. She was pretty sure Verdeline Kant had made him step down. She never asked him and he never said.

She drained the very last drops from her flask.

The mind leapt to dark thoughts if one let it linger too long on the past. Murky depths best left unplumbed. Eight ghost-pale part-formed babes lurked there. And one that lived that was never really hers to begin with. She was grateful that there was no one left alive who knew. It was unfair enough to bring him into the world. It was better he think his mother loved him and died, than know the truth that his mother didn't want him to begin with and didn't know what to do with him when he came into the world. Raised by whores was no way to become a man, but fortunately the ones as took him to their tit and under their wing were far better mothers than she ever was.

She was no mother. She was a business woman. So why were they always present, always turning to her with hungry mouths and vacant mournful eyes? It was bad enough she had to contend with all the whores doing just that. But what could she do? They were better off dead than in this ferment of foul humanity. She kept moving, kept working, or at least kept talking and flirting and drinking. Now that Miss Minnie tended her and the girls, that number wouldn't grow. A little brew of foul tasting tea in the morning and she needn't worry about bringing another forsaken wretch into the miasma in which she existed, bejeweled with cut glass and velveteen though it was. This life of hers bore no place in it for a child – though God knew how many haunted it.

Dawn had been cooking. She could smell that much from her room. When she descended the stairs it was to head to the bar to refill the flask, and slip it into the side of her corset. She poured herself a shot and downed it. Her head was slowly righting itself. Coffee. With sugar, milk if they had it. More water. And breakfast, in no particular order. She stumbled to the kitchen. Dawn glared at her and handed her a plate. The toast was cold and the eggs oily, but she ate anyway.

"Don't fucking start with me, Dawn," she stated in between bites. "Staring at me like I shit in the soup. Fuck off. I know you cook better'n this slop."

"So fucking come downstairs when I cook it, and not four hours later." Dawn banged a pot down loudly and Vi cringed. "And what the hell'd you say to Annie? She ran out of here like the place was on fire."

* * *

Annie had pounded down the stairs and out into the garden. There she turned a circle and didn't know what to do. She knew what she _wanted_ to do; she wanted to scream and just keep on walking until the earth or sea swallowed her. But nothing good would come from that. Even if she had somewhere to go or some other way to support herself. It didn't matter what she wanted. It hadn't mattered for a dog's age. She had work. A full day of managing the girls, of getting ready for Friday night and the egos that would need to be soothed. She had songs she needed to sing and tricks she needed to turn. She also needed to keep an eye on Rosie. Since the new girl, Jessamine, had come on, Rosie had been giving Fern hell and needed to be taken down a peg. Annie wasn't sure what the connection was between the two, nor did she particularly care. She usually just gave the girl a wide berth, but she wouldn't have Rosie set a bad example. Fern may be cold sometimes and hard, but she was not deserving of the rasher of grief being served to her. Rosie had gotten under Annie's skin from the start, she suspected that was part of Vi's reasoning behind taking her on. It was just another thing to worry about. Because everything else wasn't enough.

She sighed. If she didn't have what all she needed ingredient-wise, Dawn made everyone miserable on Fridays, and they were still waiting on some promised meat. A patron had offered up deer meat in trade. He had yet to deliver and Dawn was ready to skewer the nearest person who looked at her cross-eyed. Daphne was a mess; jumpy and awkward and needing more than a little mentoring on the arts of relaxing into the necessities of her life. She was thinking of pulling the girl in with her and one of her regulars to watch and learn from what Annie did. Annie wanted a better idea of where Daph was getting it wrong. The list of things she needed to tend to were endless. And Vi was right. That was the worst part. Vi owned her until she bought herself back. And then what? How would she ever get the woman to let her go? She wanted to scream.

She took a few deep breaths and walked past the edge of her garden and down to the bend of the San Lorenzo that cut the back of the property. The water line was higher than usual from the winter and spring rains. Up here, even swollen, it was more a glorified creek. Down nearer Santa Cruz it came close to being a respectable river in both width and depth. She knelt on a boulder. Dipped her fingers into the slower moving edge-water. She sighed again. It never did any good to scream. Or cry. Or complain. The only thing for it was to work until you couldn't stand, and then sleep a bit, then get up and work again. She watched a crayfish crawl about beneath the water. It hid beneath the boulder she perched upon. She let her eyes relax as she scanned the shallow area around her and caught the movement of several others. Lit said that lobsters were the same, only bigger and lived in the ocean. She watched two encounter each other to the left of her spot; the smaller backed away quickly. The larger chased the first one Annie had noticed from beneath her boulder. It brandished its larger claws at the ousted crayfish. But she leaned too close watching. Her shadow fell on them and and both darted in different directions in clouds of silt. Their struggle for naught; the shelter of the boulder forgotten.

The sun was warm on her shoulders through the short over-hanging trees; bay laurel and tan oak saplings and large rhododendron bushes in the deeper shade. The boulder lay satisfyingly immovable beneath her. Lit was fine. The relief that that knowledge brought helped to soften the knot Vi tightened with her words. Well, he was in mourning, but otherwise fine. He had been in Monterey, with his family. With his mother and sister. They lost his mother's youngest brother. His uncle was more a brother to him in age. The man had died in his sleep at fifty-two and Lit had taken his little Chinese boat out on the water, caught the wind and sailed across the deep, round bay to help with funeral arrangements. A sampan, his boat was called; bought off of a chinaman. Light and small enough to row, and but equipped with a mast that could be raised to lift a small sail. It was an ideal fishing boat for Monterey Bay.

Lit had exclaimed in Spanish when he opened the door to Annie's knock.

"I went to the wharves," she said in explanation. "I'm sorry to bother you at home. Only, I was worried."

He had smiled broadly and pulled her into his space, giving her a paternal hug and kisses on her cheeks besides. A cook-fire warmed the corner of the room. He sat her down at his small table and ignoring her protests, heaped fresh, hot, pan-fried fish, steaming rice, cold pinto beans and tortillas in front of her. He used his thumbnail to open a fresh apricot and pulled out the pit; gave her half.

The fisherman who sold next to him was supposed to have told her. Lit had let loose a short burst of Spanish - expletives from the sound of it - when he learned that his wharf-mates' wife had not relayed the information. "I didn't want to worry you," he said.

Annie only smiled. It was no wonder the message hadn't been delivered. That woman certainly seemed to despise her. "You are safe and sound; that is all I care about."

He told her of his journey while they ate, and of burying his uncle; his family's grief. There were long passages in the story devoted to tables of food, made and given by friends, relatives, neighbors. People flowed in and out of his uncle's house like the tide, paying their respects.

He was saddened by the loss, yes, but said he was happy to have had time with his family. And now he was glad to be getting back to his nets and fishing lines. Even though they were close in age, he and his uncle had not been overly fond of each other. They had fought constantly growing up and their disagreements persisted into adulthood. Lit was not glad for his death, but hoped that with him gone there would be less conflict within the family. She listened to him talk the entire time she ate. He spoke around and through mouthfuls, keeping up with her, bite for bite. She smiled at the thought of him; knowing he was well made her feel a bit lighter.

Lit's lunch had been her breakfast and it still filled her belly. It had made her pleasantly sleepy on the train ride back up to Felton. In her pocket was a blush-colored apricot, ripe enough to have a bit of give, but not overly soft.

"Eat it later, mija," he told her when she had protested, citing her full belly. He had smiled broadly when she finally accepted the small stone fruit.

She had worn the gloves. The were delightfully warm. It had surprised her what a difference it made to her entire body to keep her hands warm. The mountain air tended to be overly moist and cold most mornings. Days could be hot and dry enough to give you a headache, but mornings and evenings were always cool and often met with clouds of fog. She would buy a piece of crisp notepaper and write a note to thank him. She'd need to practice beforehand to find the right words and ensure their proper spelling. She would thank him personally, too, but she felt it acutely that spoken words weren't nearly enough. Lit had noticed the gloves straightaway. He commented on them; recognized the leather and delicate stitching. It was a small town, as busy and bustling as it was, and he knew the woman who had made them. "She's good, that one. Esperanza ... I can't remember her real last name, we always called her Esperanza el Anciano, the Elder. She has the touch. She knows how to pick the best leather pieces and whispers to it and casts her little spells with hammers and awls and catgut. She used to chew it soft herself back when she was young, when she still had all her teeth. Those gloves will last you. A long time."

They were such fine gloves. They were the finest things in her possession. Excepting his book. But that was neither here not there. Miss Minnie had been right. Annie felt much better knowing Lit was safe. She had enough else to fret over, with Eunice's death, and Vi, and well, everything. She stood, arched her back, smirked at how the motion made several crayfish scuttle away and clambered up the short slope to her garden. The fence around her largest garden bed was nearly finished. She was pleased with it.

She had the gloves hidden away on top of the wardrobe, wrapped in the tissue. Not that any of the girls were prone to taking things, well some were, but none had pinched anything lately. Really, she wanted to keep them and the story of how she came to own them private. It was bad enough to have him perpetually on her mind without having to answer questions about his attentions.

Inside the Garden, she passed by the kitchen, ignoring Vi, who was yelling at Dawn. Annie sent Fern for a piss and started checking the bar to make sure they were stocked. She was bone tired of her current state; keyed up, agitated, and humming with extra energy and hope. She wanted to see him. She found herself watching for him over the next few hours. Whenever she had a chance to glance out the window or walk the porch she took it. She wasn't sure why she needed to see him today. She told herself it was to be sure that he knew that she had gotten the gloves and how warm they kept her. Only that wasn't a real reason. One of the real reasons made her nervous. It was the same reason she had stopped fighting the opium they had forced on her at the other place. He made her feel good.

Thankfully she wasn't like to go through the tremors and sweats and sickness if she didn't see him. It still bothered her how quickly a body could grow used to a thing. Her time with Miss Minnie left her off-kilter, too. She kept thinking on Eunice. How she and Eunice were the same. How she didn't want to die and had no one in the world to mark her passing, not beyond the other whores. No one who knew her mother and father. No one who remembered her Alice.

Thinking of Alice broke her. It usually did. She needed to talk to him. She needed for Mr. Bates to know not just Alice's name, but what a sweet spirit she had been. And if she was selfish, which she was, she wanted someone to know _her_, to mark _her own _passing, whenever that should come, as more than just a whore. She wasn't stupid, death was a harsh and fast approaching inevitability in her world. For a working prostitute she was an old woman and had been for a few years now. She understood that women only got to be Vi's age doing this if they owned the brothel. And she hadn't the stomach for all that that entailed. Certain things necessary to prosper off of the vitality and youth of little girls and young women were simply not palatable to her. She knew her time was borrowed.

The spittoons hadn't been emptied yesterday. She slouched in displeasure at the prospect. When Fern returned, she gathered up two of the four. It was one of the only jobs she truly hated. She was always afraid of tripping and spilling the foul swamp of chew and saliva on herself and the floor. It had never happened to her but she dreaded the possibility. The wood floors were hard to clean. And the thought of it was enough to make her retch. She walked along, made both trips out to the latrine to empty them without event.

She noticed him well before she spoke with him that first time. She watched him and the Earl ride around town when they first arrived, and she had been impressed at how impeccably dressed they had both been. The Earl exuded wealth; his manservant was dressed the part as well and cut the distinguished figure. She didn't suppose he was a kind man, the Earl, or his valet. She supposed they would both be relatively snobbish. She had learned slowly and quietly that while Mr. Bates was a servant and assistant to the Earl, he was not snobbish or unkind. He also seemed to have a deeper connection to the wealthy man. She could sense that they weren't friends exactly, but shared a sort of brotherhood. She wasn't surprised when she learned they had served together during the Ashanti Wars.

He was quiet, but the Earl was a talker when he had had a few drinks, and had been to the Garden on more than one occasion. He liked Delphinium, with her electric blue eyes and long legs and dark brown hair. She had given him a wide berth even before she knew Mr. Bates, only because she tended to mistrust the more moneyed of her patrons. At the other place, the one she didn't talk about, many of the men who came to take her looked well-to-do. When she had finally gotten away she recognized several as political figures in Santa Cruz. One had been a sheriff up the road a ways in Boulder Creek. Those men had been particularly cruel and strange in their desires. But Delphi said that the Earl was sweet. He usually only ever wanted to talk or lay together.

"Sometimes he likes to touch me," she had said with a shrug when Annie had asked her if he was respectful. "Sometimes just look at me. Other times he wants me to touch him or even suck his cock, but he ain't never wanted to fuck. He's always gentle. Sort of wistful-like."

Annie had been pleased that Mr. Bates did not work for an unkind man. She had teased information subtly from some of the girls, from a few of the men who worked for the lime and timber works and the adjoining cooperage.

Early on, January maybe or February, she had learned from a cooper that there had been a marksmanship contest. They had held it for shits and giggles on a Sunday afternoon, he had said. And he told her how the Duke's dandy was a dead shot with a pistol and even deadlier with a rifle. He had beaten them all. The same cooper - she couldn't quite remember his name; Edmund or Edgar maybe - had also said that despite all of that, Mr. Bates didn't like to shoot. That he had to be convinced to join the contest.

It was Edwin, she remembered because there had been a girl around her age that lived near her aunt and uncle's farm whose name was named Edwina. Edwin had been a talker, and had taken a liking to the tall Brit. He had told her over a cup of whiskey-laced tea that despite everyone's initial opinion of him being a dandy, he was a hard worker; just and fair, respected, though not always well liked. Which told her that this purported sense of justice was true indeed. No one who bothers with actually being just makes _only_ friends.

She had liked the look of Mr. Bates from the start, had found herself hoping that he might come to the Garden sometime before she even knew his name. It became very clear to her very early on that he hid the extent of his drinking. She never saw him drunk, not properly. Her chosen profession made her an expert on detecting tells, seeing signs, sensing the shift of energy of a room almost before the energy shifted. She prided herself on her skills at reading people. They were a large part of the reason she was alive, and mostly whole. So she sensed the whiskey and that he drank a goodly amount, in the way he looked a bit too world weary for sobriety. She suspected he must do the bulk of his drinking up the mountainside. He used to go back up earlier and completely sober. More recently, she could smell whiskey on his person when they conversed during the day; not his breath necessarily, but on his person, as though he was sweating it out. It wasn't strong, not like the way Vi reeked of it. But it was there nonetheless. She noticed it around the time when his limp started to get worse.

He never seemed unhappy when they spoke. Homesick, perhaps, but not properly unhappy; not poorly. She could never tell if he had lost or won his card game. He always answered her the same when she asked on his luck at the poker table when he passed her at night. That is was fair to midlin.

At night, even after she began to notice his increase in drinking, he was never more than one or two shots deep. Just enough for his posture to loosen. Those were the times when his smile would part to show slightly crooked teeth, though only on occasion and for the briefest of moments before he closed his lips over his grin.

She caught sight of him late Friday. It must have been a long day for him as he was sagging a bit at the shoulders. She hadn't noticed the English Earl on the strip that evening, even as much as she had kept an eye out for Mr. Bates. She thought sheepishly on how she was watching for him, of how she had watched for him from the start. As casually as she could she would situate herself if she was inside to discreetly see his comings and goings from the Central Hotel or the Queen of Hearts. He often took a table near the window there when he ate.

The saloons and dance halls were full, leaving the street relatively empty. She hung back, tucked against the building front. She was wearing her best dress. Well, her best whoring dress. The black one with pink ribbons. It cinched her waist fiercely and pressed the bottoms of her breasts nearly flat to her chest, so that she spilled out of the corset into her thin black chemise. She couldn't care less about the fullness of her bosom, but she made more money in tips on the nights she wore it. Just like she did when she wore her hair down. Though tonight she had tied it up loosely.

She pulled her shawl snug around her shoulders when she saw him. He was crooning quietly. It was a sweet song that sounded like one she should remember from her childhood. Nights like this one, when she was lucky enough to catch him singing she hid in the shadows for as long as she dared, for as soon as he saw her he stopped and begged her pardon. This always made her want to weep, because sometimes it felt like he really meant it; that he really was begging her pardon, though she hadn't the faintest notion why. He, of all people, other than Lit, had no reason to apologize to her for anything. That night she was feeling bold. Perhaps it was because she was peckish; she hadn't eaten since breakfast, except to share the apricot with Daphne. Or maybe it was the wounds she was nursing from Vi's harsh reminder, or perhaps it was because she had been waiting so long to glimpse him that day.

"Don't stop on my account. I'm fond of hearing you sing your fancy Egyptian horse back up the mountain." She had tried to keep her voice even, to speak smoothly, but she heard sentimentality where she wanted free spiritedness.

He chuckled and stopped singing anyway. "No one wants to hear an old man sing, not when they can listen to a lark."

He winked at her then. She rolled her eyes. "Oh hush. You sing very well Mr. Bates. And you've a long way to go before you're an old man."

He chuckled. "Tell that to my body. It seems to be in deep disagreement with you and myself on this subject and insists on voicing it's rebellion at nearly every turn." He looked at her with undisguised affection. She pressed her lips into a thin line and tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach. He raised his eyebrows and continued, "A fact which has been very kindly remedied by a stubborn little bird I know."

Isis fought him for the bit, drawing his attention from Annie momentarily. The pale horse stepped sideways a touch and shook her head. He gave her some freedom and walked her round in a small circle, pulling her closer to the boardwalk and hitching post in front of the Garden. It tickled Annie that he was patient with the mare. She always felt it spoke deeply and directly about a person's character; the way they treated animals or children. Both of the Earl's horses were stunning. The dappled grey gelding was of Arabian stock and had the prettiest head she had ever seen on a horse. Isis, the palomino, was not as elegant in her lines. She was a bit sturdier and stockier, but her coloring was striking. Her golden body, almost as light as her white mane and tail, made her shimmer in the moonlight. Isis was beautiful, but seemed jumpy and somewhat untried. He patted her neck. "There you are, Stubborn," he spoke to the horse with kindness. "That's my girl, always needing to have her say."

"It may not look it now," he said when the horse settled. "But I used Mrs. Ballard's rub last night and this morning and it helped. More than I thought it would. Thank you."

Her grin was so broad that she feared her face might split. "Oh, good!" She clapped her hands together in delight. "I'm ever so glad!"

She looked down suddenly, a lump inexplicably gathering in her throat as she thought about the gloves. "That wasn't very gentlemanly, though, refusing the salve if I didn't take the gloves."

"Wasn't it?" he asked. She looked up at the playfulness of his words. His eyes shone mischievously in the low light. "Good thing I'm not a gentleman," he added impishly. But the tender way he continued left her heart feeling stripped bare. "You got them, then. Were they alright? I fretted a little over the fit."

She swallowed, took a breath and counted to three. It would not do to choke up on her words. "They're ever so lovely," she murmured. "And warm and soft. I wore them this morning. I ... I don't know how to thank you."

"You just did." His smile colored his words. She didn't need to look at him to see it, focused her attention on the horse's strong legs

"Mr. Bates." She frowned and kept her gaze trained on Isis's front fetlock. The one nearest to her had a bit of mud speckled on it.

"I didn't get them for you so that you would thank me. Your hands were cold. They shan't be cold any more." The timbre of his voice changed then, went honeyed and private. "Knowing that ... it's the only thanks I need."

There was that feeling again, like the pop of a pane of glass beginning to fracture. She thought about what Miss Minnie had said to her. Everything she had said. She looked up at him, met his gaze. And felt him in the bowl of her hips like he was touching her intimately. She wanted to kiss him. She was grateful he was mounted for it put him at a physical distance.

"They fit properly, then?" His words surprised her. Pulled her from her more base reactions. Gave her time to curb herself, to turn to humor instead.

"Like a glove." She smirked.

"Good." He was grinning widely now. Pleased with himself. "Good. Well then. I had better sing this girl up to her stall so I can get my sorry self to sleep."

He tipped his hat to her and clicked his tongue at his boss's horse.

"Mr. Bates?" Her voice halted the horse's progress, as he immediately turned Isis back around. "Might I ... Might I talk with you some time?"

"Of course. I'd like that."

"Good." She couldn't be sure in the flickering cast of the street lamps, but she thought she could see color rise to his cheeks. It made her smile to herself.

"Until next time, then," his grin was even wider, if it was possible.

She found that she couldn't stop herself from smiling back. "Until then. Good night, Mr. Bates."


	6. Interlude

Sunday morning she woke up from a dream of rubbing her cheek against his, of dipping her tongue between his lips and kissing him. She shuddered at ghost sensations; it had been so real. She had felt him, had kissed him so thoroughly they were both left gasping and trembling. She could still feel him against her lips, his arms strong around her. In the dream they had both been fully clothed, but she sat astride him. She had reached her hand between them at one point, had felt him firm and swollen beneath his trousers, had tilted her own hips to press into him. He had been wearing his proper clothes, not the denim and flannel he wore while working up the mountainside. She lay in Dawn's bed. Her breath and blood were loud in her ears.

She looked about. Dawn was up and cooking. Fern was in Séamus's room. And Annie was wet. So much so, it shocked her a little when she slipped her fingers through the slit in her knickers. She closed her eyes and let the sensations drummed up by her dream simmer through her; imagined it was him touching her, him inside her. It didn't take long for her to climb to a shuddering peak. She clenched her teeth and held her breath; biting back any noise as her body rippled with pleasure. She lay panting and sated, for as long as she could justify. The memory of his touch faded with each passing moment. It was a false memory anyway. Eventually, she gave into the inevitability of her day and swung her feet off of Dawn's mattress. She didn't usually remember her dreams. She couldn't help but feel grateful to have remembered this one, even if the thought of it made her blush. Even if it left her a bit uneasy; like she was touching him - taking liberties - without his knowledge or permission.


	7. Burdens

Sunday, 14 May 1882

I wrenched my knee on Friday. My ankle gave whilst I clambered over some debris, just after a tree fall. It didn't hurt much at first, not before yesterday morning. By then I was so overcome with barely restrained joy that I paid it little mind. My encounter with Miss Lark on Friday night left me elated and hopeful. She has accepted the gloves, and I am pleased knowing her hands will be warm and protected on her trips into town. Now if I might only convince her to lend me her dress to work upon at my leisure... One hurdle at a time.

I hear Pharaoh knocking his feed bucket against the wall. This is my sign to hurry with my morning rituals and ablutions to tend his needs. I plan on luring His Lordship up to the lime and timber works to fraternize with the workers a bit. He enjoys playing lord and leader. Especially to groups of unruly and overgrown boys, it would seem.

* * *

John Bates put the pen down and thought on black feathers in Annie Lark's blond hair, the way she wrapped herself in her shawl, and how warmly she smiled at him and Isis. She always had an encouraging word for him. He was preoccupied with eyes the stormy blue of the ocean, darkened by lamplight.

He rode Pharaoh down and persuaded the Earl to visit the kilns that afternoon. The man was growing more erratic and emotional as the days lengthened. Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham always had been a bit of an overgrown school-boy himself; spoilt with too much candy and toys, and not enough discipline. Lately his drinking and gambling where beginning to get out of hand. Bates had taken to shadowing him, hanging quietly back and then pulling the man away from his vices when he stopped being able to make sensible decisions. Or keeping him in for the night when he could. It meant being goaded into having a shot or two, or a snifter of brandy, depending on His Lordship's disposition and what alcohol he happened to have lingering about the hotel room or card table.

The Earl tended towards sentimentalism and often wished to relive his so-called glory days during the Ashanti War. So, on nights when they stayed in and Bates was called upon to offer his company, they toasted fallen brothers and sang songs in their honor. Other evenings the peer went on at length about how wonderful the endlessness of the States were, how teeming with riches and resources, and beautiful women. Lately he sat in His Lordship's hotel room listening to the man go on about this family he had created and had spent nearly every day with, yet still barely knew. "There are times when I feel as though Cora is a stranger to me - completely. And I never knew what to do with myself around the girls. It's as though I've lived in a house with another man's family since the war, Bates."

He did what he could to look after the Earl without overstepping his bounds. He worked to keep him appropriately occupied, fed, somewhat sober, and safe from assault or theft. There was only so much one person could do when another was hell bent on slowly coming undone. He did what he could and more, for he did feel a fondness for the man. Mr. Bates knew that the Earl of Grantham had good intentions. Even if sometimes he needed a bit of help to discover those good intentions. The visit to the kilns proved interesting. His Lordship thought of himself as a man's man and enjoyed the contests of skill and strength the workers played that Sunday. There was bouts of arm wrestling, a series of horse shoe throwing matches, and a marksmanship contest. Bates was able to hang back and let the Earl play the role of patron come to see his workers, his investments. It was a part the wealthy man knew well, and it gave him a sense of importance. His Lordship had ridden Pharaoh at Bates' behest, and rightfully so. Isis had proven the valet right, resisting guidance and being jumpier than usual even for her. The two men descended the mountainside near sundown at their leisure, enjoying the ferns and trees that overhung Fall Creek. John Bates was grateful for the moments of comfortably silent camaraderie.

His Lordship invited him to sup and spend the evening with him; bade him stay in and play cards. The valet was happy to comply. The season meant fresh greens and the hotel had managed to come by a crop of asparagus that was tender and fresh and tasted of springtime. Together, the two men ate nearly two whole chickens, and a large serving plate of roasted onions and potatoes. Coop's wife, Norah-Jane, was a better cook than the hotel employed, but it was still resoundingly good and filling.

They got on well, the two of them, had from the time Mr. Bates was assigned to be his batman. He felt an affinity for the Earl. Saw him for what he had grown into; an aging man not dissimilar from himself, past his prime, and like Bates, alone on this side of the world, in a sea of people. He seemed to be a bit more lonely, and instrospective as of late. Though there were certainly still nights where he had to gather up and herd His Lordship back to the hotel from card houses and brothels alike. In a way he felt very deeply for the man. Lord of the manor, but never really allowed to do anything for the manor, father of daughters he didn't really know or understand, husband to a wife who blamed him for the death of their daughter. His Lordship's class and vast wealth created its own set of unique problems. As did the way his life dictated he move within it.

He left His Lordship a bit earlier than usual, but not unwell. Their evening together had been quiet and drew to a natural close just past nine. After the extremely hopeful way they had left things on Friday night, John had been a bit disappointed to miss Annie on Saturday. He was pleased to have a bit of extra time to himself this early in the evening.

It was a quiet night and while a few of the larger saloons were busy, most were fairly empty. Sundays tended to be calm in the San Lorenzo Valley. With its mills and lime works and logging camps it was not a day of rest exactly, but more restful than others. The late shift on the mountain had not quite begun. Isis seemed to have more pent up energy than Pharaoh, so he saddled her back up and rode towards the Garden. Perhaps if he didn't see Annie he would go into the Queen of Hearts and watch for her over a cup of tea. His knee and ankle were acting up enough that he had half a mind to stiffen the tea with some whiskey.

He smiled when he saw a white clad figure on the boardwalk in front of the Garden. She was talking quietly with a man. He pulled Isis slightly away to give Annie privacy. Or to keep himself for overhearing what he didn't need to overhear. But then Annie's voice went high pitched and pleading. He looked back and could see metal glinting in the jack's hand. Not a jack - a cooper - it was Jessup Bleidel, and he was waving a gun around and then pointing it at himself. And before Bates could think he was sliding off of Isis and sneaking up behind Bleidel. It did not take much effort to disarm the emotional cooper, who sobbed and fell to his knees when his gun was out of his grip. Once Bates had emptied it of bullets and pocketed the weapon he grabbed Bleidel by the scruff of the neck, pulling him into the street and steering him towards Mount Hermon Road.

He was about to try to talk to the man, but he seemed to forget all about trying to kill himself and started up a whole new line of squawking about slavery being the root of all evils and then stumbled and vomited the contents of his stomach into the middle of the road. Gut emptied, the man stood up and acting like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, proceeded to walk roughly towards the road up the mountain. He stopped and patted himself down and then looked around. "Where's m'gun?"

"Good lord man, go home and to sleep and I might give it back to you in the morning." The memory of the quiet panic in Annie's voice was all the motivation he needed to apply his boot to Jessup Bleidel's ass. "Go!"

The drunken cooperage worker stumbled and nearly fell in the muck, but through some miracle of arm wheeling and drunken physics he remained upright and began trundling his way up the road. In less than a moment he was singing something unrecognizable. When John was sure he was keeping to the path and headed towards the cooperage that produced barrel after empty barrel to be filled by the lime-works, he turned his attention back to the front of the Garden.

Their scuffle had been a relatively quiet one. The inside of the Garden was full of the frenetic sound of the piano. He heard Vi's throaty voice take command of the crowd after the song ended. No one from inside seemed to have noticed, for Annie stood alone, looking ashen. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and crossed her arms in front of herself, obviously shaken. Truth was, it had rattled him, made him realize just how she was completely at the mercy of the men who bought her. She could hold her own, and then some, he was sure, but she was only five foot tall. And thin. Not frail by any means, she would still only be able to defend herself to a point. It was obvious Jessup didn't mean her harm, but she could have been hurt. He was suddenly grateful his employer had kept him late going on about the challenges of being born into wealth and the state of his marriage. He was relieved at how easily he had been able to creep up behind the man and wrest the gun from him.

"He's not a bad man, Jessup," John heard himself saying as he walked back towards her. "He just gets maudlin when he's had too much drink."

She scowled, spoke quietly, but in an octave above her usual tone. "It's not maudlin that troubles me," she said, hard-tongued and whisper-shrill. "It's threatening to blow his bloody brains all over the boardwalk I just swept, on account of cheating on his wife. Not over his wife cheating on him, mind, but his own meandering cockstand." She glared down the road after the cooper. "He can kill himself somewhere else over his shite decisions," she snipped slightly louder, over his shoulder at Jessup. "I've bugger-all else to do before I get 'round to scrubbing gore."

She flicked a glance over at him. He loved it when her Yorkshire lilt took on the more nasal twang of those around her who were American born. He also loved it when she looked to see if she had offended him. He saw past the pointed sounds of her words to the way her brow furrowed, to how she kept glancing towards the corner and back to him. Her breath was unsteady. He reached a hand to her. A hand she immediately grasped tightly between her own. She looked at him; wide eyes brimming with concern. It struck him that she had been afraid for him. He'd offered his hand to reassure her, to gauge if she was well. Instead she was leaning towards him, physically pulling him down to her.

"You're all right, then?" she whispered. "He could have shot you."

Her eyes were so large. Her whisper did things to him. Things that left him ashamed. He averted his gaze, gave his head a curt nod, and released her hands. She held onto him for a moment more, searching his face. He wanted ... things he had no business wanting, and he had already scared her off well enough in simply asking her to ride the train with him. Patting the confiscated gun in the front pocket of his frock coat, he tried his best to smile naturally, reassuringly. "He won't be getting it back anytime soon. I had best collect Isis." The palomino had wandered down the road apiece, after he had dismounted. She was pale in the light of the moon. "She and I shall herd Jessup back up together."

Shivering against the cool night air now that the excitement was over she nodded.

"Tell him he's blackballed," she spat with finality as he walked away; her voice hard again, her eyes narrowing. She was fierce when she needed to be. But by the time he had caught and mounted Isis and turned her around, Annie's fire had died back down.

"Mr. Bates," she called softly when he rode past, Isis lifting him almost eye level with her on the porch. He reined the horse over to her. She reached out for his hand again, her bare fingers sliding over his gloved ones. She looked so very small; vulnerable.

"Do you need to go just now? I ... wonder if I might take up a bit of your time. I know it's late ... I don't want to be a bother, but..."

"Of course. You could never be any sort of bother."

She chuckled quietly; a dry sound. "That is decidedly untrue, but I appreciate the sentiment. Do you mind if I lead Isis out back?"

His heart seemed to both leap into his throat and drop into his stomach at the same time. She hurried on, "I mean nothing improper. Just so that we could have a private word. Closer to the river the water makes noise enough to drown out most other sounds." She cocked her head towards the upstairs in the direction from which loud knocking and grunting was emanating. "And Isis could have a nice drink."

John had no idea what she was really asking. It was all he could manage to do to nod and smile as calmly as his fool face would let him. He urged the horse into a walk round the edge of the porch. Annie followed them, seemed to barely touch the two steps down to the ground and took the stiff leather from his hands. He wasn't sure if he should be elated or fearful. She might be readying to lecture him about any number of bounds he had overstepped in buying her the gloves, but something happened when Annie stood with Isis. The tension in the horse's shoulders eased; he felt it. John watched, silent and pleased as Annie cooed at the pale mare. Annie sighed deeply and stroked the horse's neck; visibly relaxing and looking far less poorly than she had only moments before. Isis made herself content lipping at the woman's shoulder and jaw, blowing great puffs of stinking horse breath in her face. Annie only smiled, made a face, and held the horse's soft muzzle. She whispered secretively into the flaring round nostril closest to her. She giggled, then wiped her face and hands with a corner of her woven cotton shawl when the horse snorted. John shifted, about to pull his foot from the stirrup, but she noticed and stepped back to him stilling his movement with her hand, small and warm, on the meat of his thigh. He heard his breath catch, shocked himself with how loud it sounded, how base his physical response was to such a simple touch. He prayed that she hadn't heard him. When she immediately pulled her hand away, he knew she had.

"Stay there. Please. Let me lead her. We girls don't often have a moment to chat, do we?" She moved back to scratch the horse's wide cheek, smiled when he nodded his assent.

"You're good with her," he stated, mortified at his reaction to her touch and cringing at his lame attempt at continuing their conversation.

"We're birds of a feather, she and I. She's got quite the mind of her own now, hasn't she?" Annie smiled broadly, her teeth flashing white in the moonlight. "I can appreciate that. And we're both beasts of burden, aren't we love?" she asked Isis who snorted and made a whuffling sound in answer. "See? We have an understanding."

He wanted to respond, to repudiate her words, to tell her not to say such things of herself, but the resonating truth of it hit him so hard in the gut that he could think of nothing to say. Instead he watched, both delighted and dumbfounded, as she clicked her tongue and led Isis confidently into the darkness of the alleyway between buildings. He imagined she had grown up around horses, or at least around the family horse, to move with that kind of ease and command. Isis was not small, nor did she usually go into strange, shadowed places with such calm. His eyes adjusted soon enough; the moon was nearly full and quite bright. The narrow dimness of the alley opened up to bare, dark soil, leaves shining silver in the moonlight and the curling, twisting bones of driftwood she had spoken of. The fence rose from the soil to curve around an elliptical bed. Annie walked them past it, chirping and whispering to Isis. The horse walked alongside her like a dutiful family dog, didn't even balk when the slight woman led them down a narrow trail along the bank of the river. John realized then that Annie had wanted more than to have a few moments' interaction with the horse. She was sparing him and his gammy ankle a rather complicated trail on uneven ground lit by only the moon. It was a considerate gesture, and one well framed to protect his pride. She was more than clever, this young woman who had taken his fancy.

Isis went slowly and stepped carefully over several large roots, and he held onto the saddle horn to keep his balance. (Lord Grantham had insisted that as they were out west they needed western style saddles, and for that, at this moment he was grateful.) The noises of the buildings grew distant as they neared the threading current. The wind picked up slightly; leaves rubbed together over the sound of the water. In the calm, the soughing breeze surrounded them. It smelled of wet earth and growing things.

"I woke up wanting to kiss you, Mr. Bates," she murmured to the night sky as she walked; to no one in particular though she addressed him. "And not because you give me things. Or out of a sense of obligation. Or because I'm grateful."

The ground leveled out to a pebbled beach along the edge of the river. She stopped walking. Looked out into the darkness. Isis' reins were still in her hands. He was terrified. Didn't know if he should breath or not.

"I don't know why I said that out loud; it's not at all why I brought you here."

"Why did you bring me here?" he rasped, pleased he could convince his mouth to make speech sounds.

"I wanted to talk to you. Proper like - not three sentences spoken in between the comings and goings of tricks."

"And does that preclude your kissing me?" He was a bit amazed at his own cheek.

Her giggle came easily and genuinely. He let go of a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"I suppose not, but I don't mean to give you the wrong idea."

"So give me the right one." He wasn't sure quite who was speaking, because it couldn't be himself.

"Mr. Bates," she admonished with a lilt in her voice. He could hear the raised eyebrows, the smile when she said it, though she didn't turn to look at him right away.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" It was safe to dismount; he wasn't afraid of frightening her off. Not anymore. He tucked Jessup's emptied gun into one or Isis's saddle bags before he dismounted. Damn fool could have killed someone. He must have grunted or something when he landed, because she was frowning and looking at his leg.

"Is it you ankle?"

He sighed. "It's nothing, it's fine."

She knelt before him and then her hands were under his pant leg, prodding painfully swollen flesh. "Mr. Bates! This is not nothing."

He bit the inside of his cheek at the sudden intimacy of her hands moving over his ankle and calf, willing other flesh not to swell.

"Come on." She stood and gave him her arm. "I know just the thing for it, if you'll allow me. Over here."

He followed her as obediently as Isis had. She helped him navigate along a few large round stones out to sit on a massive boulder that lay partially submerged in the river. It was well chosen; another boulder lay on top of one side of it and proved both a help in lowering himself to sit, and a suitable backrest. As though it was the most regular occurrence in the world, she loosened his laces and eased his boot and sock from his foot. He protested and she brushed his words away. He very much wanted to touch her hair.

"Mr. Bates, have you been to see Miss Minnie yet?" She seemed to take far too much time folding his pant leg up and unwrapping his ankle. Her hands were gentle, her touch light. He needed her to stop touching him. He needed to hold his breathing even and slow. "Your knee is swollen, too! I wish you'd let her take a look. You are wrapping your ankle far too tightly. Now, nothing in this river is big enough to take a proper chunk out of you, so go ahead; get yourself situated and put your foot right in."

He hissed when he lowered his foot into the cold water. It wasn't icy; no snow fell on these mountains to later melt away. Still, it was pleasantly cold on his foot. He hummed his relief. Even simply having the wrap gone and no weight on it was blissful.

"Let me go make sure your grand lady there doesn't wander too far astray." She flashed a grin and went to the horse; led her around a bit. He watched them. They seemed to conspire together; Isis ears turning and pricking up expressively as Annie spoke. When the two had mystically divined the appropriate spot Annie tethered her by pinching her lead in between two heavy rocks. He was smiling when she returned to him, the ache in his ankle and knee nearly forgotten.

"Better?" Annie knelt down and gently nudged his left side, he scooted a touch closer to the water, making room for her on the lee of the stone. "There's a bit of a puddle over here I'd rather not sit in," she said apologetically. She tucked her feet under herself, resting her weight on one hip. He was altogether aware of her; the nearness of her, the curves and lines of her body, angled and soft.

"Of course. And yes. It's cold," he said and cringed again as his usual sparseness of speech and lack of conversational skills collided with how completely taken he was with this slip of a woman.

"I don't like the look of your knee either. That can't be pleasant," she said in a distant voice. She cocked her head and then smiled to herself. "I know," she murmured.

He watched her, again afraid to move or say anything. She shrugged her shawl from her shoulders and touched it to the surface of the river before wringing it out and wrapping it loosely around the tight skin his knee. It was blessedly cooling on the inflamed joint.

"There, that should give you a touch of relief," she lilted, sounding pleased with her creativity.

"Annie, you'll be cold." He frowned.

"And when we're done talking I'll go inside and stand by the stove and warm myself," she said brightly, in a burst of unarguable logic that reminded him of his mother. "Will you be applying cold compresses to your knee when you go back up?"

"No."

"Well, then. The shawl's already wet; so take advantage of it and hush."

There was such a selfless happiness in the way she smiled at him. He had to clear his throat, swallow the knot of tears that rose from his chest.

"Thank you." He did his best to restrain the emotion in his voice. But even he could hear the gravel edge of his feelings for her cutting through the night air.

"You never need thank me, Mr. Bates," she answered.

With the care of a cat she settled herself back down, close to him. Close enough to lean into him. She didn't, but he could feel the heat of her body mingle with his all the same. If he concentrated, he could keep his breathing even and calm.

"Let me anyway," he said, unable to pull his gaze from her.

She was silent to that. They were both silent for a time. Her gaze lifted to the heavens. He shrugged out of his frock coat and settled it over her shoulders. She looked at him then in surprise. "You don't need to..."

"Let me anyway," he repeated softly, interrupting her. He wanted to tuck her hair behind her ear so badly he could feel it in his chest and face like grief.

In answer, her hand found his, tentative and halting, and her chin trembled for a moment. The moon and stars shone brightly overhead; the night was clear. In the hush, the crickets and frogs took up their chorus. He thought about sliding an arm around her, tucking her gently to his side, her cheek on his chest, her head beneath his chin. But he didn't dare. This was a fragile truce they were sketching out. As fragile as spider silk.

"I want to tell you about my sister," she said quietly.

"Alice, was it? Who wasn't born yet when you and your father ate through the whole of Whitby?" He hoped she could hear his smile, that she would take courage from his presence to say what she needed to say. "What is she like?"

"Her name was Alice Joan."

He heard the 'was' and the meaning behind it and curled his fingers more completely around Annie's hand. She paused for a long time, but when she began to speak again, the words came tumbling out in a rush.

"She had golden brown hair like Mar. And blue eyes like me and Da. She was so lovely. And curious and inquisitive. She was smart as a whip; ciphered figures better than I ever could at her age. She could keep the tempo of a song and harmonize with me almost before she could walk. She would be eighteen this fall. She was just shy of ten when she died. Diphtheria hit Santa Cruz hard. The camps up here too. Up until then I kept her safe. I did whatever I had to do to keep her healthy and as happy as possible. And I kept what I had to do to accomplish that a secret."

"Oh, Annie," he breathed, heart breaking for her already.

"It was ... unspeakable what my sister suffered. She was so brave. She hurt so terribly, but after a while... She ... Have you seen diphtheria Mr. Bates?

He shook his head. "No, I've weathered dysentery in the army, and influenza. But not diphtheria." He had heard though of children's throats swelling grotesquely, cutting off their airways. Of horrible necrotic sores, and whole families being depopulated of their children in just under two weeks. He couldn't comprehend what it must have been like for them, Annie or Alice. "I know about it, though. Did she suffocate?"

Annie nodded.

John felt as though he would be sick.

"I remember before she fell ill, being worried. The time was coming when she'd start to see things, and she was growing to an age where she would be noticed by the same sorts who were noticing me. I was terrified she would find out or worse yet, get lured into it all by one of the pimps. Girls disappear all the time. Never to be heard from again. In the end, it didn't matter. Nothing I did kept her safe when the sickness came, though. I stayed with her in the quarantine tent, nursed her until ... until she didn't need it anymore. I made sure she had a coffin. And a proper burial. I couldn't afford a headstone, not at first, but I made sure after I got away from the other place, after Vi saved me, that the second I had enough saved she had her marker. It's simple and small, but it's something."

"Alice Joan?"

"Alice Joan." She smiled looking into the darkness of the river.

"I'll remember." The enormity of what she was sharing with him tore at his heart.

"Good," Annie whispered, then nodded once. "She deserves to be remembered. She was so full of love. She didn't hold it against Mar, bringing us out here, away from our home. She was a little sneak, always pulling pranks on me, hiding my things, or putting frogs and newts in my nightstand drawer. She thought she was terribly clever. Half the time, I'd watched her catch the thing and heard her giggling while she thought she was secreting it away into the house."

He chuckled softly. Could picture a small girl who looked nearly like Annie running about, getting into trouble.

"She had her whole life ahead of her," she said in a near whisper.

"So did you," he leaned into her a little. Just a touch. Felt her fingers move, her thumb brush over the back of his hand.

"No, I didn't." She frowned and sighed. "I had already forfeited everything to protect her. But I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

He blinked hard to hold back his tears. He had never been in awe of another human being. Not truly. Not like he was at that moment. Awe. For what she had endured (He was acutely aware of all she was omitting, all he had yet to learn; that which she hinted at or spoke around.) and for the fierceness and care with which she protected her sister. After everything, she kept on, tenaciously holding to herself and what small joys she found around her. He could picture them, two little girls alone in the world, an ocean away from everything they'd known. He was in awe of her, because she would forfeit her very self again if she could do it to keep Alice safe. He could hear that she meant it; without hesitation and with everything she was.

"Will you take me with you sometime, when you go to visit her?" he asked.

She turned and looked at him, she seemed surprised at the request. "If you wish. I'd appreciate the company. She would have liked you very much; would have been glad for the respect you afford me, Mr. Bates."

"Annie Lark isn't your real name, is it?" he asked in a low voice, when he was able. He couldn't quite believe that he wasn't weeping openly.

"No one here knows my proper name." She frowned and looked at the night sky. "Not Vi, not even Miss Minnie. If I ... when I'm gone there will be no one left to... I mean, I'm healthy as an ox, but things happen to women of my sort. We... We don't tend towards long lives."

She pulled his hand onto her lap, held it there with both of hers, and couldn't seem to take her eyes away from it.

"Would you ... Would you remember us, Mr. Bates? Not just me, but my mother and father, and Alice?" Her voice was halting and small.

He was silent; didn't trust himself to speak, but nodded and held firmly to her hands. She continued, going sort of singsong as she recounted the story.

"They're gone too, you see. Da died four months before we came; his name was Daniel George. Mar a few months after we arrived. She was Joanna, her middle name was Rose. Please, you mustn't think ill of them. They were good people. They loved each other so much. They loved us too, Alice and me. It's just neither one was very good at planning for the worst. They both led with their hearts, not their heads. It was... It was a mistake to come. To follow her. It wasn't even Mar's idea, but there we were. After Da died, she went a little fibblety. Not mad, not really, but not all there either. It was Da's dream to come to America; he had this idea that he would sell goods to other immigrants. Grow wealthy off of the flow of people looking for a better life.

"He went out one night and didn't come back. Mar was three months pregnant. They found him later, he'd been thrown into the river and floated two towns downstream. Someone had beaten him and stolen his money. It was so strange. It wasn't like him to be anywhere but the local public house or home. But Mar would never discuss it with us. We moved back to my aunt and uncle's farm.

"The man she took up with was nice enough and on his way to America, to California, to strike it rich in the gold fields. It was awkward for her on the farm. That's what she said, anyway. It made her unhappy to see all of what they had in light of what we didn't. I never noticed that, though. They may have questioned her judgement but they treated us girls well; they never had any children, and loved us like their own. I was never exactly sure what the conflict between the three of them entailed. I only know she sold most of our possessions and booked passage for the three of us to join him. It all happened so very fast."

She spoke with no guile of the events. Recounted them almost as if it had all happened to someone else.

"Robert Samuel was his name. He'd been working an extra shift at the local dairy for his brother and got a little cut on his ankle shortly before we left. He couldn't even recall how he got it. I remember when he showed Mar, she said that she didn't like the look of it; that he should wash it. I noticed, but wasn't really paying attention because it was the night after she and my Aunt Vir fought. I'd never known them to fight like that. I couldn't hear everything, but my aunt didn't think it was a good idea to be following a near stranger across the Atlantic Ocean with two children in tow and one on the way. Especially when she had just lost her husband. Mar's argument was that Mr. Samuel was a good man. She said he loved us. She said he had savings and a plan."

"And did he?" John asked without thinking and cursed himself for interjecting, but it didn't seem to slow her down.

"I think Mr. Samuel meant well," she said honestly. "He was a nice enough man; didn't raise a hand to any of us, bought Alice sweeties, and ribbons for my hair. But no, he had no real plan and not much by way of savings. I suspect neither Mar nor Da ever understood the difference between a plan and a dream, and I think Mr. Samuel reminded Mar of Da. Because he definitely didn't recognize the difference between the two. My Aunt Vir and Uncle Charlie could see it, too. She had a talk with me. She sat me down, told me that I was old enough to decide for myself. Said I could stay if I wanted. That they were in agreement and would make sure I was looked after; that there was even money enough for some schooling if I wanted it."

"Did you want to stay or go?"

She pressed her lip into a thin line and looked away. "Stay. Of course I wanted to stay. I love my aunt and uncle, they are good, kind people. And I loved Easingwold - it was a quiet town, the community was tightly knit together; opinionated, but well meaning. I never thought it was a sensible idea. Even when it was Da's. But Alice wanted to go with Mar. Wanted to follow through with Da's dream and see America. Mar wouldn't hear of Alice staying, and I couldn't stay without Alice. With Mar out of sorts, someone needed to be looking out for both of them. So I went against my aunt and uncle's wishes, and left with my mother."

He squeezed her hands gently.

"We were so sick at sea. I hated the rocking. None of us could keep much down. By the end of the first week, it was clear Mr. Samuel's scratch was turning. He was feverish and in such pain that he wouldn't let anyone touch it. He died midway across the Atlantic, before we even passed into American waters. At first, when we arrived in Philadelphia, Mar wouldn't believe he was dead. She kept saying that it was just a little cut. Then she started to cry and wouldn't stop and it made Alice cry too." Her voice quavered as she continued, "I had to go tell the porter, but before I did, I went through all of Mr. Samuel's things. His savings amounted to thirty pounds. I took his pocket watch and his ring, too. Mar shouted at me, told me to leave him alone and respect the dead. But we had next to no money." She shook her head.

"Mar tried to keep on; we hadn't enough money to get back, and in her mind, she had her brother and sister-in-law to say 'I told you so' even if we did. So, the three of us made do. When the baby she was carrying came out blue and still, she stopped. It was a boy. My brother. She named him after Da, but backwards, George Daniel. Not that it mattered. By then she had taken up with another man headed out west to make his fortune. He was no good but he was a meal ticket and we were hungry, so Ma put up with him. She died of yellow fever in Nebraska. I hated Nebraska. Even before Mar died. So many poor souls come here thinking they will find wealth, only to be chewed up by those with the wealth; digging in their mines, working in their factories, clearing and working their land, felling their trees."

"Fighting their wars," he intoned. She looked at him and her face clouded.

"Yes, fighting their wars," she agreed somberly. He felt one of her thumbs smooth over his palm. "Then picking up the pieces and fitting them together again after the fighting stops. There were no pieces left for me to pick up when everything stopped. We all go on, though, don't we? Pieces or no. I've thought I wouldn't survive any more so many times. You get to the point though, where you realize, that we go on whether we wish it or not. I don't know why I connect the two, because if she were here to see what her sister has fallen to, Alice wouldn't be able to forgive me. But I'm beginning to reckon that not fighting for every bit of joy thrown in my path does their lives and deaths a disservice. It doesn't change anything, but we always cared very much for each other's happiness. I'll always be paying for my choices in this life and ever after, but I want to do right by them even still. They would want me to be as happy as I am able to be."

Her eyes were dry, but she let go of him to rub her hands over her face.

"I miss them," she whispered. "I miss my family." Her shoulders shook for a moment, a sort of dry, silent sob. He swallowed and slowly place his palm on the center of her back. She sucked in a hiccough of air and leaned against him.

"They never called me Annie," she whispered. He slid his arm around her shoulder, snugged her to him, tucked her head beneath his chin, foolishly hoping she wouldn't feel the tears that spilled down his cheeks and into her hair. She held onto him tightly.

"It was only ever Anna," she said. "Anna May Smith if I'd been too cheeky or Mar was vexed. Sometimes I feel like when I die, it will be as if none of us ever existed. Not Mar nor Da, nor Alice. We'll vanish. That's why I wanted to tell you. I don't... You mustn't feel sorry for me, I don't want your pity. I just ... I need someone to know we were here. That we loved each other and despite all of it, we were each of us good people, especially Alice. She would have grown to be such an amazing woman if I could have only kept her safe." She let go of a bone rattling sigh and his heart ached for her in her sorrow.

"Tell me more about Alice," he said softly, when he could speak again. "What were your favorite songs to sing with her?"

Ignoring the soreness in his back and hips that grew from sitting on the boulders, he listened to her; she told story after story about her sister. She grew more animated with each one, her voice brightened as she wove tales of her family in better times, of growing up in Yorkshire. She was right in her insistence that her parents were good people whose faults lay in how they let their dreams make decisions for them. They loved their daughters dearly. Annie ... _Anna_ felt deeply cherished by them. So had Alice. When her stories were told out she seemed more calm. Not peaceful exactly, but more settled. He was grateful that it was dark and his tears had dried. She still curled against him.

"Thank you," he murmured into her hair.

She cleared her throat. "Whatever for?"

"Telling me. Trusting me with your family and their story. It's a gift, that."

The frogs chirped loudly during her silence. "Thank you for listening," she said after a time. "I don't know if this makes sense, but even though some of it is wretched to think about, it was good to talk about them."

He smiled, "I hope you'll tell me more about them when next we have a moment to talk."

"Yes." She nodded. "That would be lovely." Her cheek pressed against his chest. Her hair smelled of almonds. He felt such a contentment. "Oh!" she exclaimed, coming back to herself. "But I've kept you for far too long."

He laughed. "Only long enough for the swelling to go down and my toes to prune."

"And your arse to get sore." She was smiling. He could hear it. She pushed away from him and he felt the absence of her acutely. Once again she was all business and after returning his frock coat to him and using her skirt to dry his foot and knee despite his protest, she proclaimed the swelling noticeably reduced. He re-wrapped the ankle, not pulling quite so tight. He replaced his sock and boot, while she twisted more water from the scarf and hung it over a low branch. She noticed his questioning look and waved his concern away.

"I'm down here most mornings," she explained. "I'll come get it in the daylight, when it's dry. Which reminds me: do you mind if I ride back up the trail with you? I shouldn't like to trip in the dark."

He nodded, biting back a smirk She was clever indeed; enabling him to save face both coming and going. He would never have agreed to mount and ride Isis while she walked.

"Of course," he said. "But before we return to the sights and sounds of our rather rough surroundings, I'd like to ask you something."

"What?" she asked cautiously, waiting for his words.

He swallowed and like pushing a boulder down a hillside, it took him a little time to find his tipping point. "Might I call you by your proper name when we are alone?" he asked in one breath.

She looked down at her clasped her hands. She gave a tight nod. He was afraid she might be crying, but when she looked up it was with a small smile. She nodded again and took a deep breath. "If you like." Her smile grew. "No one's called me Anna May in a dog's age. Longer."

"Then it's time someone started again. It suits you." He took one of her hands back into his. "I know we aren't bidding one another farewell just yet, but this setting seems a bit more appropriate. I wonder if I might I kiss you goodnight, Miss Anna May Smith?"

He could hear her breathing change, could see it in the swelling of her breasts. He immediately regretted his boldness. He couldn't decide if her expression was overwhelmed or horrified. Her chin trembled. The flutter in his gut was replaced with a heavy, sinking feeling.

She didn't pull from his grasp, but she looked at him for long enough that he began to apologize. Then she stepped towards him. Fingertips grazed his cheek, her thumb brushed over his lower lip. Her other hand opened, but only to adjust and secure her grip on him.

"Shhh ... don't you dare say you are sorry, Mr. Bates," she intoned. "Please."

She held his gaze, and she looked for all the world like a woman in pain. He dipped his head when she stepped into the small circle of space he occupied. She rose up on her toes and rested her smooth cheek against his. Her palm was warm on the back of his neck, her other still holding his hand tightly.

"Might I?" he whisper, not daring to be hopeful.

"What would you do if I said no?" she asked, sounding more vulnerable than he had ever heard her. He felt the whisper of her words over his skin. He straightened, confused, searching her eyes.

"I would never kiss you if you didn't wish it," he answered truthfully. "If I've overstepped my bounds, please, tell me."

"No," she said, and then quickly continued. "You ain't overstepped nothing, is all I mean. I ... I want to kiss you so badly it frightens me sometimes."

He smiled at that. It was most decidedly not what he had expected her to say, and for once, his brain and mouth seemed to coordinate together in harmony. "You don't seem the sort to run away from your fears, or the things you decided you want, for that matter."

She smirked at him and lifted up on her toes again to press a lingering kiss to his cheek. He turned to her as she moved to pull away, stopped just shy of brushing his lips against hers. She didn't close the space between them but she also didn't continue pulling away from him. He heard her breath hitch again. Felt it, he was so close to her.

"I can't," she whispered against his lips. "I want to, but I just can't. I'm sorry."

"Now it's you who mustn't apologize," he joked lightly to cover the sting of disappointment. He offered her a gentle smiled as he straightened. She touched his face again, so lightly he barely felt it. She squeezed his hand.

"Would you..." Her gaze held his. She sorted her thoughts and went on, "I won't be headed into town this Sunday, but next, on the first train of the day. Perhaps, if we didn't linger together at the station, but sat with one another on the ride down. That hour on Sunday the front car is always empty."

"I'm not afraid to be seen with you, Anna."

"I know you aren't, but you aren't the only one involved," she said somewhat cryptically, offering no further explanation.

"Sunday after next," he said, hope germinating in him like a seed sending green tendrils through warm dark loam. "Might we meet back here before then? Some morning perhaps? We could work on your dress together."

The brightness of her smile returned. "Yes, that would be agreeable indeed."

"Good. I agree. I mean, yes. It would." He groaned inwardly. Back to tripping over his words. He mounted Isis and helped pull her up behind him. She scooted as far up against the cantle as she could and held tightly to his midsection. He shivered slightly when she rested against his back.

"Check on Jessup, would you?" she asked as he led the palomino mare up the shadowed incline. "Make sure he's all right tomorrow. He's still black balled, mind; but I'll worry if I don't know if he made it back up all right. Even if he is a fool."

He smiled; a feeling of elation grew inside of him, despite her tender denial. "I can do that."

* * *

**tbc...**

**Thank you all for your kind and supportive words. Your reviews and feedback make my day! Big thanks to bugsfic and Ihelleberry for horse help. And Adri for being Adri. And all of you for being motivating and inspiring. **


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